


Blue Ink

by DHW



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ink Kink, M/M, PWP, Post-Canon Cardassia, Touch-Starved, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25832062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: A game of kotra in Garak's garden leads to someveryinteresting ideas.Unfortunately for Julian, games with Garak are never all that simple.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 294
Kudos: 222
Collections: INK_2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xorabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xorabbit/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an idea that came from a conversation between myself and [Xorabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xorabbit/pseuds/xorabbit) about ink and its pornographic potential. We be a classy pair. 
> 
> You can read Xorabbit's awesome take on ink and its rather delightful uses in their fic [BLACK INK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25523359/chapters/61925731) ♥

## Julian

It began in the garden.

An odd place for such things to start, granted. Gardens do not tend to inspire thoughts of a lascivious nature in all but the most committed of horticulturalists. It takes a truly determined mind to look at a rose bush with anything more than cautious admiration, it has to be said. Yet, Julian could not deny that it was in Garak’s garden that the _Idea_ , in all its inconvenient glory, had first occurred to him. He could only thank his lucky stars—or suitable Cardassian idiomatic equivalent—that he had been sat upon the picnic blanket at the time. That there had been cushions to hand, too. A single, surreptitious movement was all it had taken to position one in his lap, hiding the incriminating evidence. 

They had been playing kotra. And, as usual, Garak had been winning; his pieces dominated the board, glinting dangerously in the light of the setting sun. What little was left of Julian’s army stood forlornly towards the back, waiting for the jaws of Garak’s next trap to snap shut and further thin their numbers. Whilst today’s effort had been considerably better than usual—they played most evenings, schedules permitting—he still seemed destined to lose.

If there was one thing Julian had learned during his ten months on Cardassia Prime, it was that kotra was most certainly not his game. Nor, he secretly suspected, would it ever be. His suggestion that they switch to chess had fallen upon, if not deaf ears, then ears that were deliberately not listening. 

Garak was not a man who liked to lose. 

A state of affairs made painfully clear by the relish with which he took each of the doctor’s pieces, sweeping the board clean over the course of a few hours. Or an hour, singular, if Garak was feeling particularly mercenary. 

Which currently seemed to be the case. 

It was as Julian had sat, dice in hand as he contemplated his next move, already bemoaning the seemingly inevitable loss of yet another piece, that the problem had raised its ugly head—swiftly followed by the rising of other, decidedly more inconvenient things. 

His mistake had been looking up from the board. Specifically at Garak, who was busy fussing with the contents of the closest flowerbed, waiting for Julian to make his move. It was a common enough state of affairs—once Garak’s victory had been assured, the Cardassian would often spend the time between each move tending to various parts of his garden. It was half the reason they played outside; the other half being that the house was often stifling by evening, the structure very much designed with Cardassian comfort in mind.

Usually, such behaviour sparked little more than annoyance in Julian. Occasionally a lingering sense of inadequacy, depending on how thoroughly he was being beaten. Today, however, Garak’s gardening had an entirely different effect. 

The Cardassian in question was elbow-deep in a flowerbed—specifically the bed closest, from which a multitude of tall, violently purple flowers swayed in the breeze—a pair of secateurs seemingly magicked from nowhere. Julian watched as Garak leant forward to deadhead the blooms of his prized desert sage, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. The way the fabric of Garak’s trousers stretched tautly across the curve of his arse really wasn’t helping vis-à-vis the distressing situation currently developing in Julian’s underwear. 

Other aspects of his friend’s admittedly dashing figure were no help, either. The muscular shape of his thighs beneath thin fabric. The broad planes of his back that shifted as he worked. The fall of his hair, longer now than Julian had ever seen it before, ruffled by the evening wind. If he hadn’t already been as hard as a rock, then the sight of Garak by the flowerbed, sleeves rolled at the elbows and tunic riding up the small of his back, would have been enough to send Julian’s cock rocketing up the Mohs scale. 

Garak’s hands, in particular, were a definite issue—and, as it stood (no pun intended) the primary cause of the problem. Grey scales shining softly in the last of the sunlight, they worked quickly and efficiently, cutting and gathering the flowers. Vibrant blue sap ran down the stems of each plant he skilfully beheaded. It painted his scales, too. Colouring the very tips of his fingers; pooling in the center of his palms; tiny droplets splashing the bared skin of his forearms each time the summer wind rippled through the flowerbed. 

Blue upon grey. And a very _particular_ shade of blue at that. The colour Julian had come to associate with arousal in Cardassians. That ‘fuck me’ hue that played a central theme in both anatomy and pornography (both of which, it had to be said, he had seen more than his fair share, commited wholesale to the cultural exchange as he was). 

It was the same shade he had seen Garak’s neck ridges flush after a stimulating argument. 

Not that he was thinking about that. 

He was desperately trying to think of anything but.

Suppressing a groan, he shifted upon the blanket, fingers digging into the tactically positioned cushion as he fought not to reach below and readjust himself, uncomfortably aware that no amount of repositioning or waistband-tucking was going to save his dignity should Garak turn round and catch him in the process.

True, they were close—and had grown closer still since the end of the war—but there were limits, Julian thought. Watching your best mate fiddle with himself whilst staring at your arse and… other, _stranger_ parts of your anatomy had to be one of them. And anyway, he wasn’t entirely sure Garak would find it flattering. 

Their relationship had remained stubbornly friendship flavoured, no matter how much Julian had pushed. Flirting was not really his forte—yet another thing previous experience had taught him. Tales of one’s medical and educational triumphs rarely resulted in the lowering of undergarments; at least, not in situations that weren’t immediately followed by _‘And cough, please.’_ And as for Cardassian flirting, well…

If there was a difference between an argument and _an argument_ , Julian had yet to determine what it was. 

Yes, they argued. Frequently, too. And true, Garak’s neck did appear to turn that strangely arousing blue at the drop of a hat. But unfortunately for Julian, it was never followed by the drop of his trousers. 

Trousers that highlighted the shape of Garak’s bum, and were speckled with tiny blue flecks across the front of his thighs. 

Trousers that gaped ever so slightly at the waistband as Garak leaned further forward, revealing a hint of the wide, flat scales that decorated the small of his back. 

Scales with a hint of blue. 

Good grief. 

Julian’s hand tightened around the dice before he could stop it, sending one firing out of his grip and off into a tuft of scruffy-looking grass by the far wall. The force of it made Julian flinch, upsetting the kotra board in the process, scattering the pieces across the picnic blanket. The cushion in his lap fell casualty to the movement, too, tipping forward from the space between his crossed legs, exposing what would surely be the cause of another, altogether different sort of upset. 

“Oh, balls,” he said, scrambling to protect his modesty.

And failing. 

He quickly shifted position as Garak turned his attention away from the flowerbed. Knees lifted up towards his chest, and arms wrapped firmly around them, he swallowed dryly, hoping the incriminating flush that he could feel beginning to rise across his cheeks could be explained away as simple embarrassment at destroying the game. 

“There are some who would consider a move like that cheating,” Garak said with an arch look.

“I didn’t do it on purpose. It was an accident.” Julian replied. “Besides, the writing was already on the wall: you were going to win, anyway. You always do.”

Garak’s eyes—the same shade of blue as the stains upon his hands and fingertips—flickered briefly over the devastation before returning to the doctor. There was an amused sort of glint to them. One that Julian didn’t like the look of one bit. 

“Is it any wonder when my opponent entertains such a defeatist attitude?” he said with a grin. “I am reliably informed that practice makes perfect, but given how frequently we’ve played, I can only assume that your lack of improvement is due to a somewhat baffling desire to lose. I can’t think of any other explanation for my impressive series of winning moves.” His grin widened. “A ten-month streak, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You know full well you’re not,” Julian replied. He’d have wagged an accusatory finger in Garak’s direction, were his hands not firmly occupied with keeping his legs positioned just-so. It was uncomfortable to say the least; the zip of his fly was threatening to leave an indent in a very sensitive portion of his anatomy, and the less said about the way said anatomical inconvenience was beginning to ache, the better. He scowled—whether at Garak or the situation, he didn’t know. Probably both—and continued, “It’s hard to be optimistic when you thoroughly trounce me every evening. I still don’t see why we can’t play chess.”

“Really, Doctor? You don’t?”

Garak’s eyes were wide. Innocent. 

Or as close as Garak ever got.

“Alright, I do, “Julian said, shifting upon the picnic blanket, alarmed to discover that movement only brought tortuous friction. He swallowed drily and said, “But still, I would have thought the risk of putting an end to your winning streak would be worth the chance to beat me at my own game.”

“So you would think.”

“But apparently not.”

The scales of Garak’s hands glittered in the last of the sunlight as he pulled a handkerchief from the depths of his pocket. He wiped the blades of the shears before setting them aside. Then at his hands, carefully blotting the sap from them. The blue stains remained, however. Almost as if they had been etched upon his scales. 

Julian steadfastly ignored the way his cock twitched at the sight. Particularly that of Garak’s fingertips, which looked as though they had been dipped in ink. He ignored the thoughts that followed in quick succession, too, albeit less successfully: ones that involved Garak’s fingers sliding with an obscene sort of effect into a pot of inky liquid, and dripped slowly when removed. Fingers that drew bold lines across skin or scale—he wasn’t picky—and painted lips and ridges and spoons. 

Fingers that remained stained, even after the ink was long gone, as a reminder of where they had been. 

And what they had done. 

“You’re not obligated to play,” Garak said, interrupting Julian’s train of thought. “You are always free to say no.”

Julian blinked. He forced his mind back to the conversation, and away from the bizarrely pornographic direction his mind had wandered in regarding ink, his friend’s fingers, and the meeting of the two. 

“What, and deprive you of the pleasure of winning? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Garak inclined his head, that ever-present, insincere little smile widening a fraction at Julian’s response. 

“How magnanimous of you.”

Julian grinned back. 

“Well, considering you lose the majority of our arguments, it would seem a little petty of me not to let you win at kotra.”

Arousal leaving him feeling more than a little wild, he found he couldn’t quite resist the dig. There was something about the little flashes of indignation he saw upon Garak’s face that set his pulse racing. Needling the Cardassian until he got a rise. It was thrilling, in a strange way, provoking an argument; though whether it was quite the right type of argument, Julian couldn’t tell. Such nuance was lost upon him, even when he wasn’t sporting an erection spectacular enough to double as some sort of beacon. 

Still, despite the pique that tightened his jaw, Garak didn’t seem to mind. Not if the blueish flush that was slowly creeping across his neck ridges was any indication. 

Then again, who was to say that the little blush of arousal wasn’t as fictional as the look upon his face? Carefully crafted to both entice and deceive one Dr Julian Subatoi Bashir? 

As loathe as Julian was to admit it, it was hardly unlikely. That was Garak all over: intergalactic man of mystery, and all-round pain in the posterior. It would certainly explain why Garak had never made a move. 

Much to Julian’s ever increasing sense of disappointment. 

“Fascinating, isn’t it, how easy it is to delude oneself?” Garak said, moving back towards the picnic blanket. “By all means, if that is how you wish to interpret the outcome of our discussions, then far be it from me to deny you the pleasure of believing it. I can certainly appreciate its scant resemblance to the truth.”

Julian watched as Garak fussed with his clothing, straightening the lines of his tunic as he settled himself beside the doctor. The material was thin, and Julian could just make out the shape of Garak’s body beneath it. The ridges that highlighted his collarbone and sternum. The cord of muscle across his arms. The dark, armoured scales that protected his ribs. 

Biting back a groan, Julian tore his gaze away, focusing steadfastly upon the upturned kotra board. 

“You’re just annoyed I lost the dice,” he said, trying not to think about the way his cock throbbed, or how the blue-tipped fingers that hovered just at the edge of his vision might look wrapped around it. 

“It was very valuable,” Garak replied. 

“Valuable to whom? Replicated dice are ten a penny.”

“Me.” There was the rustle of fabric as Garak shifted beside him. “It was a family heirloom.”

Julian snorted with amusement. He toed at one of the fallen kotra pieces, the metal oddly cool against his bare feet. 

“Liar. I saw you replicate the set the first night after I arrived.” 

“I never said it wasn’t a recent addition to the collection,” Garak countered.

A prickle of something that felt appallingly like _want_ washed over Julian’s skin. The back and forth between them wasn’t helping. Julian knew he had to calm himself; it was either that, or risk giving Garak an eye-full when they finally made a move towards the bedroom—which would have been less of an issue were they not destined for depressingly separate beds.

The sun had almost set, Cardassia’s cloudless skies shot through with orange and pink and gold. It wouldn’t be long before they called it a night. Fifteen minutes at the most. Julian hoped that it was enough time to get his wayward body back under control. 

He took a deep, steadying breath and said, “You’re losing your touch.”

A disappointed sigh emanated from the Cardassian beside him. 

“Pass me the box,” Garak said after a moment. 

From the corner of his eye, Julian saw Garak’s distractingly blue hands gesture towards the empty kotra box. Off to Julian’s right, it sat just off the edge of the picnic blanket, dangerously close to the pile of petals Garak had removed from the sage. 

Careful to twist away from Garak’s no doubt prying eyes, he leaned over towards the box, biting his lip as the change in position brought with it a distinct and decidedly unwelcome increase in friction. The seam of his trousers protested at the increase in pressure. As did his cock. 

A white-hot bolt of almost humiliating pleasure shot down his spine as he reached for the box… and missed. Instead, his hand fell squarely within the pile of petals, the rest of him sprawled gracelessly across the blanket. 

He groaned. And not entirely in frustration. 

Another disappointed sigh. This time followed by the rustle of clothing as Garak pushed himself to his feet.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’d have thought it obvious,” Garak replied.

He stepped over Julian in a single fluid motion, before kneeling down to pick up the kotra box. With stained fingers. 

“Wait!”

Julian reached out and grasped the only part of Garak he could: his ankle. It was only a few moments later, when the shockingly pleasurable feel of Garak’s scales beneath his fingers had begun to dissipate, that Julian realised what he had done. He released Garak’s ankle as though he had been burned, but it was too late. The evidence was there, stark against grey scales for all to see. 

A handprint—Julian’s handprint—in that outrageously erotic blue.

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

## Garak

As Garak stood in his garden, Julian’s handprint fresh upon the bare scales of his ankle, it was all he could do not to simply turn (thankfully metaphorical) tail and flee. Beat a hasty retreat to the house. Specifically to his bedroom, given that the beating of other, lewder things had now been added to the evening’s agenda. Not that it was a particularly uncommon way to wile away the lonely hours between dusk and dawn—or unconsciousness (whichever came after he did). He was a hedonist at heart. Combined with no small amount of pragmatism, it left nightly sessions of what human literature rather tellingly referred to as ‘self-abuse’ his only release from the tensions of the day.

And the days were filled to the brim with _tension_.

Living with Julian Bashir was far more difficult than he had initially anticipated. It wasn’t just the trail of odd socks he left in his wake (some clean, others distinctly not). Or the tuneless whistling Julian subjected him to whilst washing the dishes. The intolerably spicy meals, insistence on tampering with the climate controls, or even the infuriating way he sipped his tea.

It was that he looked so horribly, unrelentingly handsome as he did it.

That smile. Those eyes. The long, lean lines of him as he waltzed carefree around the townhouse, leaving a trail of devastation behind him. It drove Garak to distraction. More often than not, he found himself simply staring at Julian, fists clenching not at the sight of the ring left by the doctor’s half-drunk mug of tea (though that was deeply irritating, it had to be said), but at the way he grinned against the rim of the cup. At the elegant fingers that curled around it.

God, those fingers.

They occupied his thoughts more than he’d care to admit. Especially at night, when his own were industriously working their way south. It took some effort in the imagination department to try and convince the more reluctant parts of his mind that the fingers wrapped around his aching cock belonged to the doctor. Anatomical differences aside, the absolute certainty of knowing what was coming—himself, if he were to be overly literal about it—did make the complete suspension of disbelief hard. Even in the dead of night, in the feverish hours where the line between reality and fantasy blurred, deep down, he knew the hands were his own. That Julian was in his own room, across the hallway, rather than in bed beside him. 

That didn’t mean he hadn’t given the scenario a lot of thought, however. 

He liked to imagine that Julian would fumble the first time. Able to get the job done, yes, but not without a few minor (yet endearing) hiccoughs along the way. A moment of hesitation at the feel of swollen ridges, perhaps. The grip around his cock a little too tight. Fingers pressing eagerly into places that weren’t quite ready for them.

It was a tantalising fantasy, in a charmingly awkward sort of way. One that he thought of often. 

Not that he was obsessed.

Cardassians didn’t have obsessions. They had _interests_. And if he was interested in Julian’s fingers and where he chose to put them—Garak forever hopeful that the answer would be upon his person, rather than the more likely location of the jam jar—then what of it?

It was certainly a salient topic given the events of the previous few moments. Even now, Garak could still feel the ghost of Julian’s touch upon his scales. Shockingly hot. Maddeningly fleeting. An insistent pressure around his ankle, gone almost as soon as it had arrived, leaving nothing but the ache of loss and an appalling sort of yearning deep in his chest.

Well, almost nothing.

Garak swallowed roughly and risked a look downwards. At the prints those beautiful fingers had left behind. They were blue.

_Blue._

He felt his breath catch at the sight. A bolt of electricity shot up his spine, leaving his scales tight and tingling, his heart pounding. He could already feel an incriminating sort of heat beginning to pool in his abdomen. Lower, too, the sensitive scales of his ventral ridge starting to swell with arousal.

Did Julian know what it meant, that specific shade of blue? What the colour, fresh and glistening upon his scales, signified? The connotations it held—of temptation and power and _dominance_?

A handprint in fucking blue. In _fuck-me_ blue. Bold and bright upon the scales of his ankle, as though he had been restrained. Caught by Julian. Trapped. At the mercy of the man who had worn a splash of blue across his shoulders the day they met, bold as brass, and later just the tantalising hint of it at his throat.

Marked as his.

This was bad. And staring at the offending mark was only making it worse.

Yet, he found he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t stop the thoughts that flashed through his mind at the sight of Julian’s handprint upon his skin. Ideas. Scenarios. Moments starring the pair of them, each one beginning with Julian’s hands upon his ankles, leaving vivid marks before they began to advance upwards. Beautiful fingers tracing each curve, each edge—each _ridge_ , turning the scales blue as Garak trembled mutely beneath him. Julian’s hands at his hips. His wrists. His throat, thumbs gliding over the jut of his collarbone as Julian’s fingers rested lightly on the aching ridges of his neck.

He thought of blue fingers sliding over his stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers and pressing insistently between the disgracefully wet split in his ventral ridge. Pushing deep. Deeper. Fingertips as blue as the sensitive scales that lined the inner walls.

Painting him, pretty as a picture, until he became a piece of perverted art. All sex and sensuality. Sap running in rivulets down his scales, glistening in the light of the rapidly setting sun. Handprints in vivid blue on his hips as Julian held him still, clever mouth too preoccupied for anymore talk.

Garak bit down upon his tongue. Hard. The shock of pain muted the moan that threatened to spill from his lips; he could already feel his cheeks beginning to heat with embarrassment at how close he had come to humiliating himself. It was one thing to fantasise about Julian in the privacy of his room. Quite another to do so in the garden, stood in front of the man himself, the only thing between the doctor and more Cardassian than was appropriate being the fabric of his rapidly tightening trousers.

It was his own fault. The trousers, that was, with their slightly more snug cut than was truly decent. Forgiving they were not—especially when, in no short order, he suspected he would be slicker than a Ferengi’s sales pitch and sporting an erection that threatened to put several, better-endowed reptilian species to shame. Gone was the usual tunic, discarded upon his bedspread in favour of something a little more revealing; there was no amount of concealment to be found in shirt-tails that barely reached the hips. It served him right, he supposed. He’d been trying to draw Julian’s eye. Capture his attention through the flashing of a little more flesh than usual. Only, when the idea had first occurred, he had thought to surprise Julian with clothing that revealed (hopefully) tantalising hints of his body, rather than simply shock him with the answer to exactly what a Cardassian kept in his trousers.

The fact that his feet were bare didn’t help matters, either. Not that he had an _interest_ in feet. He could take them or leave them. But the lack of appropriate footwear had meant that Julian had grabbed him, rather than the cuff of a boot. Marked scales instead of simple leather. Spawned this whole sordid affair with an ill-timed swipe as he strove to save the kotra board from an inky fate.

Idiot.

Not that he could claim any sort of superiority to the doctor on that front, however. There was nothing about his reaction to the situation he now found himself in that smacked of genius. Standing there, in the garden, mind firmly in the gutter as he desperately willed his body to behave, all he could do was silently pray to whichever god happened to be listening that Julian wouldn’t notice the damp patch beginning to form between his thighs.

It was humiliating. Little more than a touch, and here he was, all hot under the scandalously low-cut collar, threatening to make a mess of the inside of his trousers like a teenager.

“God, Garak, I…I’m so sorry. I...” 

Garak’s eyes snapped to the doctor, who was still sprawled across the picnic blanket, hands covering his face. Beneath Julian’s splayed fingers, Garak could just make out the edge of a frown. There was a hint of pink creeping across his cheeks and neck, too. It deepened with each passing second, the doctor colouring with embarrassment, or perhaps worse, shame.

Hardly an encouraging sight. Especially if Julian knew what sort of connotations that colour held for a Cardassian. The more Garak thought about it, the more he couldn’t be sure Julian didn’t. Naive though the doctor was, Julian had been on Cardassia for more than a year now; though it wasn’t a topic that came up often in polite conversation, Julian, for all his carefully cultivated manners, was almost certainly not above turning the air blue (a euphemism common to both Federation and Cardassian tongue).

Julian was curious, almost to a fault, and the idea that he had left any avenue unexplored, sexual or otherwise, was something Garak found himself unable to believe. He was a clever man—illegally so, in fact—and the Grid, just like the Internet back on Earth, was awash with pornography. Not that he monitored Julian’s access to it—the risk inherent in such a violation of privacy wasn’t worth the gain. No, it was simply a matter of statistical probability. Spend enough time on-network and something blue was sure to pop up (inevitably followed by other, more tangible things).

Yes, Julian knew what it meant, that shade of blue. He had to. Which put everything into a damning sort of perspective, really.

Julian didn’t want him.

Not like that.

And yet, whatever vain hope Garak had entertained of such a revelation squashing the lewd thoughts that buzzed around the inside of his skull evaporated the moment Julian’s hands dropped from his face. If anything, the tiny voice inside his head—the one that insisted upon repeatedly remarking quite how good it might feel if Julian were to paint more than his ankle blue—only seemed to get louder. More insistent.

Julian’s forehead was blue. There was a single smudge of colour in the centre. Right where the little spoon-shaped ridge would be, if he were Cardassian. Not a place often painted by men, and certainly not by off-worlders, which made the inadvertent act all the more erotic. Gave the doctor an air of carnality. A slight hint of taboo. 

He looked so…

Garak swallowed drily. 

Julian’s frown deepened. “Garak, are you okay?”

No. No he wasn’t.

Not when Julian looked like _that_.

He quickly tore his eyes away, staring resolutely at the grass. Garak’s hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. A wave of heat washed over him. He could feel himself becoming shamelessly slick with arousal, and he bit down upon the inside of his cheek. He shifted stance, seeking friction, pressure, anything to ease the throbbing ache that pulsed beneath the split in his ventral ridge.

“Garak?” Julian repeated. “Talk to me.”

Garak opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t. The sounds simply died in his throat. It was a blessing in disguise, in a way, given that Garak couldn’t trust himself not to say something completely inappropriate. Invite Julian back to his room, specifically his bed, in words more explicit than the act that would follow.

“If this is about that bloody dice, I’ve already said I’m sorry,” said Julian. “And you’re already covered in sap. It’s hardly as though I’ve ruined your outfit. I got your ankle, anyway. It will wash off.”

There was a pause.

“It will wash off, won’t it?”

Garak blinked, eyes snapping back to the doctor as a horrifying thought occurred.

What if it didn’t?

Garak couldn’t quite manage to muffle the groan that escaped him at the thought. His scales felt as though they were about to burst into flame, burning white hot beneath the blue. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his pulse in the very tips of his fingers. 

Julian's biochemistry was strange, even by human standards. Who knew what human sweat would do when mixed with the sap. Would it make the colour stick? Turn it from sap to ink? Stain his scales in a more permanent fashion?

Would the print last a day? A week? Or would it stay vibrant longer than that? Remain so vivid upon his scales that it had to be hidden from prying eyes, like a dirty little secret? _Their_ dirty little secret.

Faced with a troubling new question—and the equally troubling sight of Julian sprawled prostrate upon the blanket, hand dark with sap and a smudge of blue upon his forehead—Garak did the only sensible thing.

He fled.


	3. Chapter 3

## Julian

As the sound of Garak’s hurried footsteps faded, Julian let out a long, heartfelt groan and collapsed forward, burying his head in the scratchy weave of the picnic blanket.

Just when he thought the evening couldn’t get any worse, the universe had once again surprised him with a swift kick to the unmentionables. Not only was he deeply frustrated—he was still sporting the sort of hard-on that threatened to tear the seams on his long-suffering trousers—but the cause of said frustrations, sexual and otherwise, had stormed off in what Julian could only describe as a fit of pique. 

What other explanation was there? 

The _look_ Garak had given him before marching off into the house was like nothing Julian had ever witnessed before. Not even when he had left the attic window ajar on the first day of monsoon season, the resulting flood rendering Garak practically apoplectic. Stony-faced, blue eyes sharp, a twitch at his ridged jaw; Garak had looked like a man about to explode, given the right sort of provocation. 

It was a testament to the depths to which his thoughts had sunk that the type of provocation that readily sprang to mind involved the removal of the majority of his clothing, sinking to his knees, and a rather thorough investigation of exactly what Garak kept beneath those sap-splattered trousers. Possibly in the hope of trading one variety of explosion for another. Not that he was particularly big-headed regarding his skill in the bedroom—or rather garden—department. Merely confident in his abilities. Previous reviews, whilst rarely outstanding, certainly leaned more towards the five-star end of the scale. 

And if nothing else, he was an exceptionally quick learner. 

He was incorrigible, too, though that was less of a blessing and more of a curse. Here he was, alone in the garden, having ruined both their game and the pristine scales of Garak’s ankle, and instead of feeling sorry, all he felt was an unrepentant sort of horniness. If he hadn’t already been doing his best impression of a flag pole, then the memory of his handprint upon Garak’s skin would have sent him from half mast to full in no short order. It was more than a little bit damning, he conceded. He ought to be utterly ashamed of himself, not manfully resisting the urge to grind his hips into the blanket.

And that was before he even considered the question of whether or not the sap would wash off. He assumed so, given Garak’s previously blase attitude towards deadheading the plant. But the way Garak had reacted to the question—the way the colour had drained from his face at the mere idea that this may not be something easily rectified by a date with the sonics—had made him reconsider. 

What if the mark didn’t come off? 

Julian moaned. He wasn’t entirely sure he could cope with a permanent reminder. A flash of it from beneath the hem of Garak’s pyjama bottoms; a hint of blue peeking out from above a well-polished boot; the knowledge that, even when it remained unseen, it was still there upon Garak’s scales, dark against the shimmering grey. It would make life frankly unbearable. Especially when it came to that latter point. 

Just knowing exactly what Garak was hiding beneath all that well-tailored fabric would likely be enough to send him scrambling from the room as fast as his legs could carry him. Either that, or he would simply embarrass himself. Whilst the knowledge that it was _his_ handprint probably wasn’t enough to make him come—or at least he fervently hoped so, for the sake of his underwear if nothing else—he couldn’t deny that the thought of it being hidden away from prying eyes, like a sort of secret, wasn’t deeply erotic. The situation had a whisper of depravity about it; the mark taking on new meaning through Garak’s efforts to conceal it. No longer the simple result of an innocent accident, but a statement, of one variety or another, that spoke of intimacy. Perhaps even ownership. As though Garak had been discreetly marked as Julian’s own in some twisted, sap-soaked way. And all in that damnably pornagraphic blue. 

It would certainly make breakfast a more awkward affair than usual, he had to admit. He had enough trouble as it was meeting Garak’s eyes across the table, given what he got up to most nights. It was always a little jarring watching Garak eat after he had spent a decent proportion of the previous evening fixating on all the _indecent_ things Garak might do with his mouth, if Julian ever worked up the courage to ask. 

That handprint would definitely work its way into his wank fantasies. Possibly even become a central theme. Something to be expanded on in the safety of his own mind, one handprint becoming two, three, four… Additions upon additions, mapping each and every touch in brilliant blue. Prints, smears, sap dripping like ink from his fingertips as he contemplated his next move. Garak writhing beneath him, begging for his hands, his mouth, his cock, the muscle and bone of him highlighted with sticky, glistening colour. 

And that was just the beginning. 

He fully intended to explore other avenues vis-a-vis the painting of skin. Specifically his. Julian had no doubt whatsoever, that should Garak choose to mark him similarly, he'd be fighting not to come on the spot. The mere idea of Garak's hands soaked in blue sap, leaving a trail that documented each and every touch upon Julian's skin, made him moan. Screw the oft-imagined scenario in which Garak left him sticky and panting—now he could only think of blue ink splattered across his quivering stomach, Garak's fingers possessively smearing the drops over the soft, vulnerable parts of his belly. 

They would turn the bed sheets blue. Ruin them in their haste to paint one another. 

Julian felt a fresh wave of heat wash over him. He steadfastly ignored the way his cock twitched at the thought of turning more of Garak’s scales blue, fingers and toes curling as he tried to tamp down his reaction. 

If that handprint didn’t come off, he was doomed. He might never be able to leave his bedroom again—which, if nothing else, would put a significant dent in his career prospects.

And never mind the presence of the mark; what if Garak came to him with the expectation that he could remove it? 

Whilst Julian had no doubt that he could, given enough time and a decent dermal regenerator, the act of doing so would test his resolve like nothing else. For a start, any procedure would require an initial examination. That meant both looking _and_ touching; the act of touching was exactly what had got the pair of them into this mess in the first place. And the less said about the looking (which was always shortly followed by the _imagining_ , and later the _wanking_ ), the better. 

He could picture the scene now: Garak, sat upon the kitchen table as he perched on a chair, the Cardassian’s bare foot in his lap, trousers rolled up to the knee. He’d have a hand around Garak’s calf. Or maybe the top of his foot, thumb hooked beneath the arch to hold it steady. The other would be working the regenerator, sweeping it slowly across Garak’s scales, dissolving the blue. Returning the beautiful scales to their pristine grey. 

Erasing the evidence. 

Julian couldn’t help the little rock of his hips at the thought. The evening air seemed to be getting hotter by the minute, the breeze doing little more than sending sparks skittering across his sensitive skin. Sweat was beginning to bead upon his upper lip and at the base of his spine.

He growled in frustration. 

This was getting ridiculous. He’d wrecked the evening’s game, sending Garak storming off in a huff, and all he could think about was that stupid handprint. 

With a heavy sigh, he rolled onto his back. Above, he could see the ghostly outlines of Cardassia’s three moons, hanging like shadows in a sky shot through with orange and gold. It was a cloudless evening, the breeze bringing nothing with it save dust and the scent of the desert beyond the city’s walls. 

The coming night would be a cold one. 

Julian shivered, though whether in anticipation or _Anticipation_ , he didn’t know. 

Even if he was prepared to spend a chilly night in the garden—which he wasn’t—he couldn’t stay outside forever. At some point, today or tomorrow, he would have to venture into the house and face the music. Apologise to Garak, preferably with the lost die in hand, and hope for the best. 

There would likely be an argument. Which… wouldn’t help. 

The coming fight wouldn’t be one intended to seduce—they never were—but much like the blueish hue that occasionally flushed the scales of Garak’s neck, or the prissy way he cleaned his sticky fingers with his handkerchief, an argument never failed to get Julian’s blood pumping. More often than not, their heated disagreements left Julian with the overwhelming desire to either fuck Garak or strangle him. Possibly both. 

The fight he could see looming on the horizon was unlikely to be any different. 

Well, other than the fact that when he imagined throttling the charismatic bastard, one hand would be blue.

God, he really was fucked. 

Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing slightly as the movement brought the fly of his trousers into uncomfortable contact with his aching cock. He pressed a hand against himself. Then immediately panicked. 

Which hand? 

He looked down, relieved to note that the fingers now shamefully stroking his cock were clean. His blue hand was braced upon the blanket. Better to leave a print there than one between his legs, he thought. If he bumped into Garak on his way inside, then he could at least cobble together some semblance of an innocent explanation for how the smear had come to be there. 

Still, it wasn’t as though the idea didn’t have a strange sort of appeal. And the more he thought about it, the more enticing it became. Evidence of his helplessness in the face of Garak’s charm. Of the overwhelming effect the Cardassian had upon him. 

In his mind’s eye, it wasn’t just the fabric his hand turned blue.

Julian’s fingers flexed against his cock, sending shocks of tingling pleasure through him. A moment—and a rather telling gasp—later, he pulled them away, forcing his hand back down to rest upon the picnic blanket. Though his body burned at the loss of friction, he refrained from touching himself further. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to will away the urge to simply unzip his trousers and take the problem in (blue) hand. 

He couldn’t. 

He _shouldn’t_. 

He wasn’t in the privacy of his own room but in the garden, in full view of the other town houses that stretched along the street. Night had yet to fully fall, and in the dusk, the shape of him (along with what said shape was busy doing) would be readily apparent to any unfortunate onlookers. 

What would the neighbours think?

They were already a little wary of him. Humans had a reputation—both within the Federation and without—and not a good one. Combine that with some good, old Cardassian suspicion, and watching him masturbating furiously in the bushes would likely push them from guarded to outright hostile. 

Best not to risk it. 

Especially when the Cardassian unlucky enough to be subjected to a lewd little show with their sunset might well be Garak. Though Julian’s heart skipped a beat at the thought, it was hardly the way he would choose to break the news regarding his long-standing case of the horn. 

He could picture the ensuing conversation now.

_‘Ah, yes. You weren’t mistaken, Garak. That was me, wanking in the middle of the lawn. Never quite been brave enough to ask whether or not you fancied a go at the old horizontal tango, so I thought a visual demonstration might get my point across… Yes, I have washed the picnic blanket, thank you. I’m not a complete animal.’_

Somehow, the scenario didn’t hold much in the way of appeal. 

Julian sighed heavily and tried to concentrate on something other than the insistent press of his cock against his trousers. 

He had to find the missing die. Pack up the rest of the game, too. Oh, and clean his hand. It wouldn’t do to get inky sap all over the kotra box now. Not if Garak was ever going to let him live it down. 

Besides, there was a good chance that such mundane activities might improve the situation downstairs. He fully intended on returning to the house with as much of his dignity intact as possible. Or, at the very least, without running the risk of poking someone’s eye out. 

With a groan of frustration, Julian slowly pushed himself up from the blanket. He surveyed the devastation with a weary eye.

He sighed heavily. 

It was going to be a long evening.


	4. Chapter 4

## Garak

It wasn’t coming off.

He’d tried the sonic shower, soap and water, the scrubbing pad from the kitchen sink. Even the little bottle of acetone he kept in the back of the medicine cabinet for emergencies. Whilst the rest of the sap had washed off with little more than a quick scrub, nothing seemed to shift the mark at his ankle.

Desert sage wasn’t known to permanently stain Cardassian scales. The sap had traditionally been used to make ink; the ancient Cardassians that had once inhabited the Lakatian valleys had mixed it with ash and glue made from urall hide, forming a paste that had been used to colour everything from leyik vellum to fabric. Dried, the powder had been used as a cosmetic. Though usurped by modern, synthetic pigments, it nonetheless held a place in the cultural consciousness, the blueing of ridges and spoons and intimate scales still synonymous with sex and seduction. But even at its most processed, most _potent_ , it could still be removed. 

Unlike the print. 

Whatever Julian had done, he had produced something from the plant that no Cardassian had ever managed: indelible ink. Much to Garak’s growing dismay. 

Growing arousal, too. 

One foot braced against the bed, and out of ideas, Garak frowned down at the offending article. It was mocking him, the handprint. Sitting there upon his ankle, lewd shade drawing the eye. Drawing _his_ eye. 

He couldn’t look away. The scales were wet and glistening and blue. Sensitive, too. Every pass of his fingertips across them sent electricity crackling up his spine. He could hear himself panting as he traced the shape of Julian’s handprint. Feel the hot, sticky pulse of lust coursing through his veins. 

It was perfect, the shape of it. The wide, flat palm print. The long, elegant curl of the fingers around tendon and bone. The splash of blue against grey gave the impression of restraint. As though Julian had pinned him in place, the shade of it whispering sweet stories of crumpled bedsheets and gasped requests for release (of either variety). 

Garak slumped backwards against the wall, sending the little acetone bottle skittering off the bedside table and onto the floor. The plaster was blissfully cool against his overheated scales, and a low moan rumbled from his chest before he could stop it. Slowly, he felt his legs beginning to give out beneath him and he began to slide down the wall, coming to rest in a heap upon the tiles at the bottom, foot still braced upon the side of the bed. Bringing the handprint directly into his line of sight. 

That little mark with a hundred different meanings, most of them lewd. The stuff the kinkier parts of the Grid played host to, made flesh by BlueTube, and other holo-streaming sites of an equally obscene nature. 

The fact that the handprint had been nothing more than the result of an accident mattered little to Garak’s overheated mind. Not when all he could think of was what it could have meant, had the circumstances been different. How it made him want to say things to Julian that involved words like ‘ _use_ ’ and ‘ _rough_ ’ and ‘ _fill me_ ’. Instilled in him the burning need to confess exactly how often he thought of being left wet and shaking upon the bed, still reeling from the aftershocks, marked by Julian in more ways than one. Dominated, like the handprint suggested. Thoroughly fucked, with patches of blue left upon his scales to prove it. 

Garak bit his lip. 

Snippets from the fantasies that had plagued him in the garden continued to flash across his mind’s eye. Julian’s prints upon his ankles, his wrists, his hips. Blue fingers wrapped around his cock, smearing the colour across the thick length of it. Or pressed deep inside his ventral split, slick with both sap and his arousal. The scales of his belly painted blue and white in turns. Handprints upon the bedsheets as Julian fucked him into the mattress. Stills from each going round and round until they blended into one, as though painted upon some sort of pornographic zoetrope. 

A gasp of a moan escaped him.

It was too much. 

He had to…

He needed…

God, he _needed_.

Garak shut his eyes, head tilting back to rest against the wall. His neck ridges ached; swollen and tender to the touch, they felt tight. Each shaky breath sent shockwaves of pleasure rolling across his skin as it shifted and pulled. Hand trembling, he began to smooth along the keeled scales. Slow and steady, the pressure light but even. 

If he ever managed to get Julian into bed, this is how it would begin—with a hand at his neck, touch feather-light and teasing, Julian’s fingers stroking the scales over and over until the pleasure of it became too much. Garak was sure of it. 

He imagined Julian’s fingers wet with sap. Both the ones at his neck and the ones sliding a little lower. Painting him blue. 

Garak’s free hand took the same path as Julian’s imaginary one; palm pressed flat to his scales, it followed his ventral ridge down, ghosting over the soft planes of his stomach before descending further to where the ridge split, the two halves pushed apart by the thick length of his cock. He grasped it without hesitation, hand circling the shaft, and began to stroke. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Julian’s hand would be warmer, he thought. He could still feel the ghost of Julian’s touch upon his ankle—white hot in a way that threatened to make his blood boil and his scales burn. 

Garak’s fingers flexed, nails digging into the ridge of his neck. 

Julian wouldn’t do that. Not the first time. 

No, he’d replace his hand with his mouth. Lick the aching ridges. Kiss them with one hand wrapped around Garak’s cock, the other between his legs, blue fingers knuckle deep inside him. 

Maybe Julian would use his mouth elsewhere, too? Take Garak’s cock into that soft, wet heat and tease him until he begged for relief. Press his tongue deep into the wet split below, following the path his fingers had taken. Smear blue sap across his lips and chin as he brought Garak to his knees, leaving no question as to what they had been up to. 

Garak groaned, hips rocking up, pushing his shamelessly slick cock further into his fist. Pleasure knifed through him. The muscles of his stomach and thighs tightened. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. Hear it ringing in his ears. 

No. 

Wait. 

Not his heartbeat, but footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Garak’s eyes snapped open. His hand stuttered to a halt. He held his breath, ears straining as he tried to listen to the sounds coming from the hallway beyond. 

It was Julian returning to his room. Simply heading to bed, or so Garak hoped. The last thing he needed right now was a knock at his door. Or worse. No knock. Just the soft snick of a latch, followed by the creak of an opening door. 

It was another bad habit of his dear doctor’s: barging in at the most inopportune of moments.

And what moment could be more inopportune than this? Sat, absolutely starkers, quietly moaning as he fucked his own hand, slit so wet he could feel slick liquid beginning to run down the crack of his arse. And all of it caused by the man currently bounding up the stairs, and the blue handprint he had left upon his scales. 

The universe wouldn’t be so cruel. Would it?

Yes, he thought. Yes, it absolutely would. 

All Garak could hope was that he had locked the door. And if he hadn’t, well...

Breathing heavily, he looked down at himself, noting with dismay that there was nothing on Prime that would be able to convincingly cover up the state he was in. Trousers were right out; if he could get the zip up—and the chance of that was slim at best—it would be absolute agony. The tent he would pitch in a towel would put even the large marquee down in Victory Gardens to shame. And the robe, whilst probably the best option of the three, ran the risk of instigating a rather lewd game of peek-a-boo. 

“Garak?”

The footsteps came to a halt. There was a brief moment of silence. It was followed by the quick rap of knuckles upon the door. 

“Can I come in?” Julian said after a second. “Please?”

“No.” 

No. No. No.

Even if he hadn’t been damp, naked, and sporting the hard-on of his life, he could smell the scent of his own arousal in the air. It was unmistakable. The Terran sense of smell was not as acute as that of a Cardassian—though he often wished otherwise, for all the torture it caused him, Garak knew _exactly_ what Julian got up to each night—but he was certain, inadequate olfactory bulb notwithstanding, Julian would be able to detect the scent. Whether he was familiar enough with Cardassian arousal to know what it meant was another matter, but it was not a risk Garak was willing to take. 

“I know you’re angry with me, but come on. Don’t be a git. Just…” He heard Julian sigh. “Just open the door.”

_Angry with him?_

Yes, he supposed he was, in a way. Angry at Julian for instigating what might well be the most desperate wank he’d ever had in his life. Angry that he’d interrupted it, too. A tormentor in every sense of the word, giving with one hand and taking away with another. 

Garak’s cock twitched as if to punctuate the injustice of it all. His fist tightened around it, sending shock waves of pleasure ricocheting across his scales. His body screamed for more. A stroke of his hand. The press of his fingers into his slit. Anything to ease the ache between his thighs, no matter how inappropriate. But Garak willed himself still, the very last shreds of his propriety holding back the urge to continue where he left off.

He ought to tear his hands away. Keep them firmly at his sides. Let the lust subside to a more manageable level and deal with the man on the other side of the door. Yet, no matter how hard he glared at his fingers, they refused to remove themselves from their incriminating locations.

“I found the die,” Julian said through the door. 

God, the sound of Julian’s voice wasn’t helping. It did things to his insides at the best of times. Those clipped, Standard tones, with a hint of irritation beneath. Sat upon the floor, exposed and trying desperately not to pant, the effect Julian’s voice had upon him was practically criminal. Before he could stop himself, Garak began to stroke the length of his cock. He bit his lip in an effort to stifle the moan the action elicited. And mostly succeeded.

There was the angry rap of knuckles against the door.

“Are you even listening to me?” Julian snapped. 

“Yes,” he gasped. 

“And?”

“I’m thrilled to hear it,” Garak replied through gritted teeth.

The fingers wrapped around his cock had begun to move again. Stroking faster. Harder. Unable to help himself, he brushed the pad of his thumb over the bare head of it. His hips bucked at the sensation. His other hand began to move lower, sliding down the hardened scales of his chest, towards the soft, vulnerable planes of his stomach. 

He had to stop this. Pull his hands away. 

Calm down before Julian worked out exactly what he was doing to himself. 

He took a deep, shaky breath.

“How’s your ankle?” said Julian. “Did the mark come off?”

And all hope of being able to stop fled. 

Garak’s eyes snapped to his ankle. The scales had begun to dry, and if anything, the handprint looked more vibrant now than it had before. Almost luminous, even. 

He bit back a groan at the sight.

“No.”

“Oh.”

Garak swallowed roughly. He closed his eyes again, trying to block out the print, but it didn’t help. He could still _see_ it, clear as day. Only now, in his mind’s eye, the handprint was still fresh and dripping inky blue fluid upon the floor. 

His eyes snapped back open, gaze fixed once more upon the blue stain. The sight of it sent sparks running across his scales. His hand stroked aggressively up and down his cock, but it wasn’t enough. There was an ache deep between his thighs that only his fingers could relieve. Shaking, he pressed the tip of one into himself, sinking knuckle-deep into the wet slit with an almost embarrassing ease. It was rapidly followed by a second. 

“I could probably remove it for you,” Julian said, words cutting through the haze of lust that had filled Garak’s mind. “W-with the dermal regenerator. I have one in my medkit.”

"I think you’ve done enough for one evening, don’t you?" Garak replied, trying—and failing—to keep his voice even. 

Did he even _want_ the mark removed? The sensible part of his mind said yes—he was no use to man nor beast like this, just the sight of it leaving him so aroused he could barely function—but the voice of reason was drowned out by the multitude of others, all voicing deeply erotic opinions and scenarios. And if nothing else, then the removal was sure to be as torturous as the sight of it was now. Julian would have to touch him. Run his fingers over the stained scales as he assessed the damage. Trace the outline of the mark he had left. 

Garak fingers flexed deep inside himself, sending a white-hot bolt of pleasure rocketing up his spine. He growled in response, the sound low and dangerous. 

"Look, I'm sorry, alright,” Julian snapped. “How was I to know the sap wouldn't come off? I can't get it off my hand, either. And that's your fault. Leaving the trimmings next to the picnic blanket like that."

Julian’s hand was still blue. His forehead too, no doubt. So he couldn’t remove the stains, either.

Garak felt his whole body begin to tense. His cock hardened further in his fist, swelling just that little bit more. His internal muscles clenched tightly around his fingers. He was a trembling, shuddering mess, little more than a few feet away from Julian, with only a door between them. On the verge of moaning his name. Giving the game away. And still he couldn’t stop. 

Not when Julian was spoiling for an argument.

"You claimed you could remove the sap with the dermal regenerator," Garak said after a moment, once he was sure he could get his voice under control—a task harder than his cock. 

"I probably can. I just haven't got round to it yet, as I naively thought that returning the die was more important."

So sweetly thoughtful, even in the face of his perceived anger. Yet another thing that made Garak want to devour him whole. Or perhaps be devoured by him. Kissed, licked, bitten until over and over until there were no scales left untouched. 

"I appreciate the sentiment."

"Do you? Because it doesn't sound like it from here."

"What do you want, Doctor?” Garak snapped, the hand around his cock moving at a punishing pace. “For me to get down on my knees and prostrate myself in thanks for solving a problem you caused?"

The moment the words had left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Talk of sinking to his knees had him picturing an entirely different scene. One which involved blue stained hands twined in his hair, and his lips stretched around the length of Julian’s cock. 

"You could at least open the door."

"I’m not dressed for visitors," he gasped. 

But oh, how he wanted to invite Julian in and let him fuck him into the floor. Have Julian bruise him. Use him. Wrap that beautiful blue hand around his cock and stroke it until he came in sticky ribbons between them. 

The force of Garak’s orgasm hit him like a skimmer. He bit down hard upon his lip, stifling the moan that threatened to escape. The sudden release of tension made his whole body shake, his mind almost short-circuiting with the relief of it.

It took him a moment to regain his wits. And another to realise Julian was still talking to him through the door. 

“Fine. We’ll play it your way. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make yourself presentable, and then you’re going to come downstairs and let me repair the damage, after which you’re going to beat me at kotra.” 

Garak groaned. And this time, he didn’t try to hide it.


	5. Chapter 5

## 

Julian

What had he done?

Julian slammed the door of his room shut. He collapsed back against it, panting heavily. His skin felt tight. As did his trousers, he noted with dismay. It had taken him long enough to calm himself down in the garden, and here he was, back to square one. Five minutes with Garak and he was once again sporting the sort of erection that was liable to poke someone’s eye out. 

He wasn’t going to be able to will it away this time. The ache he felt from the first attempt had yet to subside; he didn’t think he would survive a second. Besides, he was almost certain there was some variety of joke—likely cosmic in nature—in the fact that blue seemed to be becoming somewhat of a theme when it came to portions of his anatomy. 

He looked down at the hand in question (the colour of his bollocks being strictly metaphorical) and groaned. 

It was like an itch beneath his skin that he couldn't quite scratch. The relentless pulse of _want_ through his veins. It was almost as though he were a teenager again, only instead of popping a boner at everything even vaguely… well, anything shaped (he’d always been blessed with a very good imagination), the trigger was Garak. Frankly, it was starting to feel a little pavlovian. It wouldn’t be long before simply hearing Garak’s name would result in the sort of response off-colour comedies were made of. At the rate things were progressing, he would have to invest in a longer tunic if he was going to have any hope of saving what little was left of his dignity. Some slightly looser trousers, too.

And speaking of...

Fingers fumbling, he popped the buttons on his trousers one by laborious one. He slipped a hand (blue) beneath the waistband of his boxers. The muscles of his stomach tensing, he curled his fingers around the shaft of his erection and began to stroke. 

It wouldn't take long. Not in the state he was in, half-mad with lust for the man down the hall. 

Good grief, what had he been thinking? Ordering Garak downstairs like that. Like the situation—and the Cardassian—had been his to command. He couldn’t even keep control over his own body right now, never mind anything else. 

And yet, he couldn’t deny that it had felt good. More than good, even. The exertion of power, however minor, along with Garak’s grudging acquiescence was thrilling. Though it was a dynamic that had previously held little appeal, the act of ordering Garak downstairs had sent Julian’s mind reeling. Lewd ideas, focused entirely on other ways Julian could apply such control, continued to rattle around his skull, conjuring scenarios in which Garak was on his knees, on the bed, on the floor—Julian wasn’t picky—trembling as he fought to obey Julian’s every whim. 

He could picture it now. 

Garak, on his hands and knees, shaking with the effort of keeping still, keeping quiet, keeping within the parameters of the rules Julian had set as he fucked him from behind, his blue fingers leaving prints upon Garak’s hips. 

Julian felt his back arching against the door. His legs widened a little bit further to give his hand better access. Unrestricted, it began to move furiously up and down his aching cock. A high pitched whine left his throat before he could stop it, and the blush that followed burnt its way across his cheeks. But it wasn’t enough to make him pause. If anything, the shameful heat of it made his fingers tighten, his hand move faster, the embarrassment he felt at producing such a humiliatingly needy sound spurring him on. 

What would he make Garak do?

What _could_ he make Garak do? 

That was perhaps the better question. 

Nothing Garak didn’t want to. Julian was sure of that. Thankful for, too. His interest ended where coercion began; games like these were only fun when both were willing to play. Like Kotra. Or chess. Dominance in the bedroom achieved in much the same way as on the board: through careful strategy and bold moves. 

But if Garak did want to fuck him—and that was a pretty big ‘if’—what would he let Julian do in order to achieve that? What pieces of himself would he sacrifice for larger gain?

How would he play the game?

Would he sink to his knees if Julian told him to, and take the hard, aching length of him into his mouth? Use that sharp tongue for something more than lies? Curl those grey fingers around his own cock as he sucked, bringing them off together, despite Julian’s demands to the contrary?

Would he let Julian tie his hands behind his back and paint the ridges of his chest blue, still as a statue? Or would he lean into the touch? Writhe beneath Julian, tugging and pulling at the bonds that held him fast, moaning, groaning, begging to be fucked? 

Would he let Julian silence him with a word? Fuck him with blue fingers whilst tied to the bedposts? Hold back until Julian gave him permission to come? 

Or would he fight every order? Undermine every command? Argue until he was blue in the…

The sound of a door slamming brought Julian momentarily to his senses. He scrambled away towards the bed, cognizant of how thin the walls were between his bedroom and the hall. Julian could think of nothing more humiliating than Garak overhearing his rather desperate, and distinctly solitary form of sexual entertainment. Garak couldn’t know that Julian had been reduced to this, brought almost to his knees by little more than the stain on his fingers and the sound of Garak’s voice. It would likely end him. 

Not in the pleasurable, little-death sort of way, either. 

But good grief, the way Garak had spoken to him. Short. Sharp. Anger so easily mistaken for something else—though Julian was willing to concede that it was likely little more than his overactive imagination on that front. 

Then again, the man had growled. 

_Growled_. 

And the sound had been like an electric shock across his skin. Whatever control he had managed to exercise over himself in the garden had been immediately lost. Though Garak had obviously made the sound out of sheer frustration, Julian’s brain had stubbornly chosen to interpret it as sexual. The sort Garak would make if he were in a similar state to the one Julian was in now, hand in his pants, wanking as though his life depended on it. 

If only that had been true.

Julian thought of Garak touching himself as they spoke through the door. Thought of Garak's hand around his cock. Or his fingers inside his slit, knuckle deep, moving the same way Julian had seen so many Cardassian men do on BlueTube. Unable to help but touch himself, despite the danger of discovery, the blue mark at his ankle driving him on to new, infinitely more reckless heights. Perhaps even aided by the knowledge that Julian was only inches away, liable to rumble him at any moment, unaware that Julian would fuck him in an instant, if only he asked. Exchange grey fingers for blue ones and ensure their mouths were too preoccupied for any more arguments. 

One hand braced against the bedside table, the other working furiously inside his boxers, Julian came with a muffled cry. 

He took a moment to catch his breath, before cleaning himself up and re-fastening his trousers. Briefly, he considered taking a shower, but the cheerful beep of the chrono on the far wall told him he was already late for his ill-advised appointment downstairs. 

Legs still shaking from the aftershocks, opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet and retrieved his medkit, the contents of which he proceeded to unceremoniously dump upon the duvet. As he picked through the pieces of medical equipment, hunting for the dermal regenerator, something caught his eye. 

Kukalaka. 

The bear was sat upon the bed, resting against the pillows, glass eyes staring up at Julian with the faintest hint of reproach.

Julian felt a twinge of shame.

"Well, what did you expect me to do? I couldn’t go down there looking like that, could I?" Julian said, gesturing towards the crotch of his trousers. “What would Garak have said? _‘Is that a phaser in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?’_. It would have been humiliating.”

Kukalaka continued to stare.

“Yes, yes, alright. I know. Too human a reference, but my point still stands.” Julian blinked. “Well, not anymore, it doesn’t. Which was rather the goal." He wagged a long finger in Kukalaka's direction. "Judge me all you like, but at least this means I’m not going to embarrass myself down there. I’d call that a win, wouldn’t you?” 

Kukalaka didn't reply. Thankfully. The day was already strange enough as it was. The bear simply continued to watch—no, _judge_ Julian with glassy black eyes. With a sigh, Julian grabbed Kukalaka and shoved him under the blanket, before returning—somewhat guiltily—to the task at hand, muttering a litany of apologies under his breath. 

It took him a moment to locate the dermal regenerator. Another to straighten the lines of his shirt and trousers. Then, armed with a piece of Starfleet’s finest medical equipment, and a nice, long refractory period, he marched downstairs to meet what he had a sneaking suspicion might be his doom.

***

The kitchen was empty.

It appeared as though the torture was to be postponed for another day. Wherever Garak had gone when he had left his room, it hadn’t been where Julian had ordered. Not that Julian was particularly surprised; Garak was a law unto himself. Or, rather, a law unto Cardassia, which amounted to much the same thing these days, given his job at the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Either way, he was not beholden to the whims of one Julian Subatoi Bashir. That much was evident. 

Julian breathed a sigh of relief. Garak’s absence might have poured water on Julian’s sudden interest in direction and domination, true, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care; touching Garak the way that the removal of the mark required would be agonizing enough no matter the day, and given he’d spent most of this day in particular trying not to make a mess of the inside of his trousers, a little light reprieve was more than welcome.

He turned to leave, his mind now entirely focused on the merits of a good shower, and almost walked straight into Garak. 

The Cardassian jumped in surprise. His eyes went wide, fingers fumbling as he fought and failed to keep hold of the little bowl he carried. Julian watched as it slipped from Garak’s grip. 

Quick as a flash—augmented reflexes had their occasional uses—Julian caught the bowl, pushing it back into Garak’s hands before the Cardassian had even registered that he’d dropped it.

“Thank you,” Garak said, voice tight. 

Garak was still angry with him, then, Julian thought. Looked angry too. Julian could see it in the tightness around his eyes, the bluish flush of his cheeks, the flaring of his nostrils as he no doubt fought the urge to snap at him. His fingers had tightened around the bowl, too, Julian noted, nails digging into the lacquered Moba wood. 

Julian sighed. This was not going to go well. Especially not when Garak was dressed like _that_. 

Captivating wasn't the word.

Punishing, however, was.

Garak was shirtless. Not exposed or bare, no—he was wearing a robe, and a firmly closed robe at that—but there was nothing beneath. Not on top, at any rate. A quick glance at Garak’s legs told Julian that he was still wearing trousers; a pair in black, shot through with golden thread, and made of something that looked like silk. Just like the robe. 

The fabric clung to Garak’s scales, highlighting what lay beneath. Every plain. Every curve. Every ridge. All of it brought into sharp relief by the almost liquid nature of the cloth. 

And then there was what the robe _didn’t_ cover. 

Good grief, Julian could see the start of Garak’s ventral ridge! Even when closed tightly around Garak’s waist, the cut of the robe exposed the spoon-shape that sat at the top of his sternum. It was fainter on Garak than most, Julian noted. Little more than a ghost against the scales of his chest, before leading down to the far more prominent line of his ventral ridge. The one that bisected his torso, his hips, leading down to... 

Julian blinked, uncomfortably aware he was staring. It was time to refocus on something safer before Garak’ realised he was being ogled. 

“What’s that?” Julian said, gesturing to the bowl Garak was carrying. 

“Ink.”

“Ink?”

Garak nodded primly before sweeping past Julian, the hem of his robe fluttering behind him. He set the bowl down upon the table with a clink.

“From the sage?” Julian asked.

“What else?” Garak replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Julian sidled up towards the table. He leaned over Garak’s shoulder to get a better look at the contents of the bowl, noting with dismay the way Garak tensed at the increased proximity. 

That was new. Clearly, the incident in the garden had done more to damage their friendship than Julian had first realised. His chest ached at the thought of the wedge he had inadvertently driven between them. 

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to move away. Take a step back. The closeness was intoxicating; the heat of Garak, the scent. He felt like an addict, forever seeking his next fix, and damn the consequences. A mess of hormones, unable to control himself in either mind or body. 

“What’s it used for?” Julian murmured, suddenly aware of how close his mouth was to Garak’s ear.

“Writing, textiles...” Garak replied softly. “Ancient Cardassians used the pigment in a variety of ways.” His fingers traced the rim of the bowl. “Though most have fallen out of fashion entirely.”

There was something almost perverted about the way Garak stroked the bowl. At least in Julian’s opinion. His touch was light, measured, the brush of his fingertips upon the rim strangely erotic. 

Julian shivered. 

“Did they use it to decorate their scales?” he asked before he could stop himself. 

Julian could have sworn he heard Garak’s breath catch at the question. A dark blue flush was beginning to creep across the Cardassian’s neck ridges. 

“No.” 

Garak’s hand paused. After a moment, he let it fall to his side. He turned his head towards Julian, blue eyes wide and more than a little bit wild. 

They were so close Julian could feel Garak’s breath upon his skin. Smell the scent of his soap, rich and smokey and deep. Practically taste the kanar that sweetened each measured exhale.

“I think it’s time we began, Doctor. Don't you?”


	6. Chapter 6

## Garak

This was a bad idea.

The robes. The ink. The proximity. 

Garak could already feel the gossamer-thin threads of his control beginning to unravel. Unspooling before him, ready to trip and trap unwitting feet—either his or those of the doctor—and drag them both down until they lay panting upon the floor, ink running in rivulets between the tiles. 

The bowl had been a mistake, he knew that now. A temptation too far, brought to the table (quite literally in this case) with the all appearance of an aid to remedy the problem that sat, vibrant and blue, upon his scales—if none of the intention. His cover, if queried, was one of scientific rigour; how could Julian ensure correct and efficient removal of the mark at his ankle without a sample of the sap itself?

The truth, however, was a little less noble. 

Temptation had overridden all sense of decency and decorum. The last vestiges of subtlety, too, come to that. Garak had brought the ink-filled bowl to the proceedings for one reason and one reason only: to get Julian, through a combination of guile and cunning, to leave him with more than a handprint upon his ankle with which to wank away the hours. 

He wanted Julian to dip a finger into the ink—his index, or perhaps his thumb—and turn the ridges of his face blue. Not just the spoon that sat in the centre of his forehead, but the raised scales that decorated his brow and sharpened his jaw. Paint him like the men and women who once occupied the Night Courts of Imperial Cardassia, who wore little more than wisps of silk and dark ink upon their ridges. 

To say that his plan had backfired spectacularly would be an understatement. Especially considering that it had barely shuddered into motion when the flaw became apparent. 

Julian. 

Or, rather, the fact that Garak could barely think straight when Julian was so near, hand and forehead as blue as the Lakatian Sea. A distinct kink—no pun intended—in an otherwise perfect plan. All thoughts, schemes and duplicitous designs evaporated from his mind in a puff of something akin to smoke, and were replaced by a singular focus: Julian. 

The doctor was so close, it was almost unbearable, his presence like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. A pressure at the very edge of his senses, pushing into his personal space, his head, demanding attention. Garak could feel his breath upon the scales of his neck. Feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his robe. Smell the scent that infused the air between them. 

It was an embarrassingly familiar scent. One that told him exactly what Julian had done in the long minutes between leaving his door and appearing in the kitchen. Where his hands, ink-stained and elegant, had been. What they had touched. And what the consequences of said manual exploration had been—in this case, an outcome with the latter before the former, and no shower between. 

Garak felt the scales of his neck ridges flush with heat. His mind began to short-circuit at the thought of Julian with one blue-fingered hand wrapped around his cock, the other perhaps pressed against his lips to stifle the helpless little sounds such a touch would no doubt elicit. A frantic sort of pace to it. Desperate. A single-minded sense of determination as he thought of... 

Garak swallowed drily. 

What had possessed Julian to engage in such an activity? Surely the argument they had shared through the bedroom door hadn’t been _that_ stimulating for the doctor? None of their previous arguments had been (much to Garak’s eternal disappointment). Why would this one, small and ultimately unspectacular, be any different? 

For one heart-stopping moment, Garak feared that Julian had correctly deduced the exact nature of the gasps and groans he had been unable to muffle during their previous encounter upstairs. The ones he had made not in anger but pleasure as he guiltily stroked himself to completion to the sound of Julian’s voice (and the sight of his handprint upon his ankle). If true, it was less than ideal. Whilst such a situation would at least indicate that the good doctor wasn’t as averse to his advances as Garak had assumed, it had an element of insurmountable embarrassment to it that threatened to torpedo any future designs upon Julian’s body (or heart) through sheer awkwardness. 

And yet, the idea that little more than a few stray sounds, when combined with Julian’s fervent imagination, had resulted in the overwhelming urge to mete out a little self-abuse of his own...

The heat at Garak’s neck intensified. The scales there were flushed a brilliant blue, he was sure of it, and there was no disguising that fact either. Not with the neckline of his robe cut the way it was—low and dangerous, exposing all but the very edges of his shoulders. 

Julian had to have noticed. 

By now, his neck ridges had to be approaching a similar shade to that of the ink. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of them were a similarly incriminating blue given the direction of his thoughts. He could only hope that the doctor didn’t know what the flush of colour meant. Or that he wasn’t quite clever enough to deduce the truth of it. 

It was a vain hope, granted, but one Garak clung to with the stubborn tenacity of a Ferengi down to his last bar of latinum. 

Cursing internally, he fought to bring his body back under control, aware that Julian would have noted the change. Arousing his curiosity was the last thing Garak wanted, especially regarding something so complicated, so volatile as this. 

His fingers itched. It would take so little just to reach out and touch Julian. The slightest flex of his wrist, and his hand would brush against the fabric of Julian’s trousers. A little further and their fingers would meet, perhaps entwine (if he was exceptionally lucky). Half a step back, and a little to the left, and he’d be pressed against Julian’s front. An inch, maybe two, and their lips would meet.

He was too close. It was all too tempting. He had to move, get away from Julian and clear his head. He needed space. Time to calm himself. Time to force the feelings back down inside where they could once again be ignored, dismissed as little more than a confusion of hormones and too long spent celibate. Space and time, doctor’s orders, and wasn’t that funny, in a cosmic sort of way? Stood here in the kitchen with him. 

The sooner the mark at his ankle was removed, the sooner he could return to his room. Put a little distance between himself and Julian before he said something he couldn’t take back. 

Or _did_ something.

He took a deep breath, opened his mouth try and hurry on the proceedings, when Julian smiled. And Garak… 

Couldn't look away. 

In the warm glow of the kitchen lamps, the doctor’s smile was dazzling. Full of a cheeky sort of mirth that threatened to overwhelm Garak with its intensity. It softened the sharp angles of his features, and was accompanied by what could only be described as a dangerous glint in his eyes. 

And then there was the mark on Julian's forehead. Garak wanted to touch it. Rub his thumb against it, like he would with another Cardassian, and make him moan. Kiss it. Lick it. Scrape his teeth across the delicate, blue skin before he pushed the doctor to his knees and begged for the slide of warm human fingers beneath fabric. 

Garak forced his gaze to return to the table, to the bowl of ink upon it, and tried to shake the images from his head. His heart pounded in his chest, as though he had been running. His hands trembled. An electric sort of sensation crackled along his spine, leaving his scales prickling in its wake.

 _Deep breaths_ , he thought. 

In. 

Out. 

Banish the thoughts of Julian from his mind, lest he do something he would later regret. 

_In._

_Out._

There was a moment of silence. 

“Garak?” Julian asked, placing a hand upon Garak’s shoulder. “Garak, are you okay?” 

Now there was the million-bar question. 

In truth, he didn’t think he was. This attraction, whilst nothing new (Garak had felt the strings of it tug at him for almost a decade), had never been quite so overwhelming as it was now, here, in the kitchen. The sound of Julian, the scent, the way his fingers brushed against the exposed scales of his neck, however unwittingly, had become imbued with a subtle eroticism that left Garak’s heart pounding. Fantasies, dreams he had spent years denying the very existence of in daylight hours clamoured for attention. They flitted through his mind like the stills from a zoetrope, the images, feelings blending into an explicit narrative that spanned the breadth of their relationship. 

“Garak?”

He started as he felt Julian’s hand tighten around his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. Or a squeeze Garak suspected the doctor intended to be comforting. He swallowed roughly as a new scenario began to form amongst the cacophony. One of hands, strong and cool and blue, teasing him to ecstasy in the kitchen as Julian murmured instructions into the shell of his ear. Where each new order was accompanied by the smear of ink over his scales, and the hint of teeth at his neck. He bit his lip. Hard. 

This was madness. Utter madness. Yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to draw a halt to any of it, to deny the flicker of hope that all this was leading somewhere new. Virgin. Not when Julian was so close, his hand upon his shoulder, thumb tracing the edge of the ridge.

“Well?” Garak said, shrugging from Julian’s grasp. “Are we going to stand here all night, or are you going to get on with it?” 

"On Earth,” Julian replied, with just a hint of amusement, “they say that patience is a virtue.”

Julian’s voice was like silk. As soft as his skin, with a warmth to it that made Garak’s blood burn.

“Chastity and temperance too, or so I’m told,” Garak said, fighting the urge to tremble. “How dull life must be on your planet.”

Garak felt the laugh rather than heard it. It whispered so closely past his ear that Garak could have sworn it was the ghost of the doctor’s lips against his scales rather than just the air expelled from between them. 

“Bold words from a man who has never taken the time to visit it.”

“Why bother, when everything that could possibly interest me is here?”

He hadn’t meant the words to come out so flirtatiously (or be quite so close to the truth). Garak fought the urge to wince. He quickly changed the subject.

“Given that you have yet to successfully remove the stain from either your fingers or your forehead,” Garak said, “I thought you might like to analyse the sap before we begin on my scales.”

There was a slight pause. 

“My forehead?”

Garak blinked in surprise. So Julian hadn’t looked in a mirror. Too busy attending to other needs, Garak thought before he could stop himself. 

“Right in the centre.”

Another pause. This time it was accompanied by the rustle of fabric; presumably Julian reaching up to probe at the area. The movement sent a waft of cool air chasing through the space between them. A frisson of electricity rolled across his body, the delicate scales of his face, his neck, prickling as they tightened. He dutifully ignored it, and the accompanying flutter in his belly. 

“Balls,” Julian muttered after a moment. “Oh well, it can wait. I’ll deal with it later.” He sighed deeply before leaning over to pat the tabletop with a slender, blue-stained hand. “Up here, if you don’t mind. Then I can get a good look.” He paused. “At your ankle, I mean.”

Feeling a little like a man on his way to the gallows ( _R.I.P. my dignity_ , Garak thought churlishly), the Cardassian turned, careful to keep his eyes from meeting Julian’s. Slowly, he slid back onto the tabletop, perching upon the surface, legs swinging freely over the side. 

The moment he was settled, Julian stepped into the space between Garak’s knees, dragging a chair behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, face pensive, Julian sat down, blue hand circling Garak’s calf as he did so, pulling the Cardassian’s foot into his lap. 

Julian's fingers were hot. Garak could feel them through the thin fabric of his trousers. Soft skin brushed against the scales of his leg as Julian hooked his fingers beneath the hem and slowly eased it up over his calf, carefully rolling the fabric as he went. Exposing the blue handprint. 

_Julian's handprint._

The sight of it made the scales on the back of Garak's neck tighten with anticipation. The ones on his arms, too, energy crackling across every exposed section of scale like lightning. It intensified as Julian reached out to touch the print, the tips of his fingers tracing the outline. A corresponding flash of pleasure knifed through Garak's stomach, the muscles between his thighs beginning to tense. He heard his breathing quicken in response to the sensation. Heat rolled over him in a wave, settling into an unmistakable warmth that pulsed through his veins. His ventral ridge stiffened beneath the silk of his robe.

It was intoxicating, being touched like this. Dangerous, too. 

It took little effort to imagine the doctor's hands smoothing up the inside of his thighs. Stopping as they reached the top, thumbs stroking softly between the crux of them, tracing the outline of the ridges beneath. Making him beg and moan for more. Giving him everything he asked for until there was nothing but skin and scale between them, each touch immortalized in dripping blue ink.

Garak shifted upon the table. The tips of his fingers brushed against the ink bowl, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. 

“Aren't you going to remove the stain from your hand first?" he said, eyes now resolutely focused on a point just to the left of Julian’s shoulder. 

"I thought you'd be eager to see your scales returned to their former condition, given the way things stand," Julian countered, hot little fingers still probing at the mark upon Garak’s ankle. 

It felt like torture. 

"So you mean to use me as a test subject. What's the expression? A giddy pig?"

"Guinea pig,” Julian corrected, free hand fishing in his trouser pocket for the dermal regenerator. “And no. Not at all." 

Julian's hand flexed around Garak's ankle, nails biting briefly into the tender scales, sending sparks shooting up the Cardassian's spine. Garak bit back a moan. He could feel a heavy sort of fullness beginning to build between his thighs.

"Now, hold still," Julian said.

"Yes, Doctor."


	7. Chapter 7

## Julian

_Yes, Doctor_.

A shiver ran down Julian’s spine. Those words. That tone. The way Garak simply acquiesced to his softly spoken command, holding himself still as Julian’s fingers tightened around his ankle, nails pressed lightly into the inky scales. 

He hadn’t expected Garak to be quite so compliant. Which was odd, in a way. He’d seen hints of such behaviour before; earlier, with the door between them, when Garak had accepted his marching orders downstairs. Out in the garden, too, in those brief few seconds between calling out and grasping Garak’s ankle. Garak had complied then. Hesitated, if only for a moment, before Julian’s warning touch had ruined everything. 

_Yes, Doctor_.

Julian could imagine how those words would sound spoken in a different context. One that had Garak on his knees, watching, waiting, muscles as tense as a coiled spring as he reached out with shaking hands to obey his orders. 

Whether those orders would be to touch Julian or himself, the doctor wasn’t sure. Both options had their distinct merits. Whilst Julian ached for the touch of another—it had been far too long since he had felt the press of hands against his body, the slide of skin against skin—watching Garak’s fingers disappear beneath the fabric of his trousers would provide enough mental stimulation to fuel the start of a thousand fantasies. 

If he hadn’t had the foresight to take the edge off earlier that evening, then the idea alone would have been enough to leave the lascivious sway of Julian’s thoughts verging upon exposure. Especially given how close to the top of his thigh Garak’s foot rested. An inch higher, if that, and the Cardassian would have been able to feel the evidence for himself. Whilst Julian considered himself a man able to appreciate a fine arch—and Garak’s arches were _particularly fine_ , as were both his soles and toes—other appendages were higher up the list when it came to his preference for first contact. 

It might be considered a touch old-fashioned, but on the whole, Julian thought himself rather more partial to the touch of fingers than that of toes. Perhaps accompanied by a little gasp—something to stroke the ego else it feel left out of the proceedings—and the subsequent press of Garak’s lips upon his own. 

And the strange thing was, it no longer seemed like such a wild idea: being touched, kissed, _wanted_ by Garak. Something had changed between them. The flirting that had previously defined their relationship (or lack thereof) no longer felt quite so harmless. Here, in the kitchen, bowl of ink upon the table and his hand wrapped around Garak’s ankle, it all felt a great deal more dangerous. As though it was about to lead to something bigger. 

Something there would be no going back from. 

From the way Garak’s calf muscle had stiffened beneath his fingers, Julian had the distinct impression that the Cardassian could sense it too. The change. Had perhaps even instigated it. 

"Are you alright?" Julian asked.

"I'm fine."

Garak smiled in his usual, empty way. A pleasant mask constructed with the sole purpose of putting Julian off the scent. No doubt hiding quite how unsettled the feel of the doctor’s fingers upon his scales had left him, lest it be construed as a weakness. A vulnerability left open to exploitation. But Garak’s eyes betrayed him. They didn’t match the affable expression upon his face. Quite the opposite.

They burned. 

"You seem tense,” Julian said, his own eyes dropping to look at Garak’s ankle. He rubbed his thumb lightly across the bone, noting with interest how Garak’s breathing had begun to quicken.

Anyone else, and Julian would have assumed his own overwhelming animal magnetism the cause (he was nothing if not the eternal, arrogant optimist), but this was Garak, and nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. If there was one thing Julian had learned over the many years of their friendship, it was that Garak rarely revealed anything he didn’t want others to see. Short of being so affected by Julian’s touch he had lost control of his senses—something that seemed deeply unlikely, even in Julian’s rather self-aggrandising opinion—the only plausible explanation for the change was… Well, Julian wasn’t exactly sure. 

A deep suspicion that this was all some variety of game was beginning to settle over him. One with unclear, and likely unfair rules. 

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable,” he continued, ignoring the apparent irony of the statement as he continued to all but caress Garak’s ankle in the vain hope he would be rewarded with a gasp. Or perhaps even a groan. 

He couldn't help it. 

The feel of Garak's scales against his fingertips was exquisite. Warm. Dry. With just a tiny amount of give when his nails pressed against them. And that was before he even considered the visual aspects of the action; the contrast between his hand and Garak’s scales, and the dark blue hue that stained them both. Two halves of a whole, the shadow of one etched onto the other. A connection the colour of sex. The only thing preventing the addition of other marks—whether by ink-dipped fingertips or bite of teeth upon scale—the parameters of the game they now found themselves in. 

And Julian was increasingly sure that this was a game. A game that seemed remarkably similar to kotra (no surprise there), where each successful move was countered with one that felt as though it were half reward, half punishment: the slow movement of Garak’s foot up Julian’s thigh, both simultaneously rewarding and tortuous, was almost certainly a trap to lure him out into the open. And really, what else had he expected? Garak’s entire existence consisted of bold strategy and elegant deception, each move calculated to unleash maximum impact with minimal exposure—why would his method of seduction be any different? 

Which begged the following question: how long had they been playing? 

Since Garak had walked into the kitchen, the bowl of ink the opening move in his game? Or had this begun earlier, and Julian had simply been too stupid to notice? Had it started in the garden, the handprint upon his ankle Julian’s unwitting opening gambit? A tacit confirmation on the doctor’s part that he wished to progress beyond harmless flirtation and lonely bouts of self-abuse in the room at the end of the hall? 

Stranger things had happened. And that particular shade of blue did have _connotations_. 

Yet, Garak had been angry with him in the garden. Angry with him in the hallway, too. Which did render the latter scenario—that his inky handprint had raised the sexual flag to full mast, pun notwithstanding—somewhat unlikely. Argument may have been a cornerstone of Cardassian flirtation, but even Julian could tell the difference between true anger and ardour.

Or so he had always thought. 

Now, he wasn’t so sure. 

"Doctor?"

Julian blinked.

"Sorry. I was miles away."

Garak’s eyes flashed dangerously. Julian fought the urge to shiver.

"A statement that hardly fills me with confidence,” he said, foot flexing in Julian’s lap, toes digging briefly into the muscle of his thigh. “Will the removal of the ink also stretch to my scales, I wonder? Or a lapse in concentration result in the loss of a limb?"

"Don't be dramatic. I know what I'm doing."

“Famous last words. That’s the human expression, isn’t it?”

Garak’s foot inched higher. Just at the edge of his peripheral vision, Julian could see Garak’s other leg move to rest upon the arm of the chair. Sole sliding over the polished wood to press against the back, it boxed Julian in as the other pinned him down. 

A clear challenge.

“Is that a threat?” Julian countered, fighting to keep his voice light as he considered his next move. 

It would need to be bold. Something that would put Garak on the backfoot and give Julian the chance to come out on top (and there were several jokes in there, he was certain). Establish the doctor’s dominant position without leaving him exposed. A move with an air of plausible deniability about it, too, just incase the game, the flirtation, and the faint prospect of sex upon the kitchen table were little more than the one-sided product of his own overactive imagination. 

Playing for time, he turned his attention to the dermal regenerator and began to fiddle with the settings. 

“What a wild imagination you have. I’m merely expressing my concern,” Garak said, foot flexing again, demanding Julian’s undivided attention. “For a man so particular about his research, I find your current methods rather lacking. Here you are, set to menace my scales with Federation technology without taking so much as a moment to examine the sap sample I have so graciously provided for you. Many would call that careless.” Garak paused for a second, leaning forward before continuing in a whisper, “Perhaps even reckless.” 

It took a moment for Garak’s words to sink in. Julian could only blame the increase in proximity for the lag between ear and brain, all processing power diverted towards his other senses as he rushed to burn the specifics of the moment into his long-term memory for later, solitary perusal.

God, he had never heard Garak sound so seductive. So sinful. Julian’s swallowed drily. A prickling heat swept over his skin, the sensation almost painful. His cock twitched, the fabric of his trousers starting to become dreadfully tight. He resisted the urge to adjust himself. To pull back, too; he refused to concede any ground to Garak, physical or metaphorical.

An idea began to dawn. 

"Would you prefer it if I went first?" he said, releasaing Garak’s ankle and placing the dermal regenerator on the table. 

Garak faltered momentarily. Julian watched as the mask slipped. The expression of surprise lasted for a fraction of a second before it was once again replaced with the Cardassian’s empty smile, but it was enough. A swell of something dark and deeply competitive rose in Julian's chest, the muscles of his stomach tightening with _want_. 

"A demonstration of your claimed prowess would be much appreciated," Garak said with a nod. 

It was Julian’s turn to smile. A wolfish grin stretched across his lips, which he licked, a bolt of white-hot need crackling across his skin as he watched Garak’s eyes dip to track the movement. 

"You're going to have to help." Julian reached into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. "You'll need this."

His fingers brushed against Garak’s as he passed the handkerchief over, but he didn’t let them linger. He had bigger, bolder moves planned. 

Eyes fixed on Garak’s, he rose from his seat, Garak’s bare foot sliding from his lap as he did so. From the corner of his eye, he saw Garak move his now free foot to rest upon the arm of the chair, mirroring the other as he trapped Julian. 

It was a move the doctor had anticipated.

Julian placed his hands upon Garak's thighs, just above the knee, and pushed. Gentle but firm--that was the order of the evening. A thrill shot down his spine as Garak complied with his unspoken command, legs spreading just enough to allow Julian to stand between them. 

His hands lingered. He couldn’t help it. The heat of Garak’s thighs beneath his palms was just too intoxicating. He felt a desperate urge to slide his hands upwards, thumbs tracing the inner seams of Garak’s trousers, gently pushing his thighs further apart, exposing him. 

And speaking of exposure, he was almost certain he was mistaken, but he could have sworn that the fabric of Garak’s trousers was beginning to darken. A small patch, right upon the seam. Right where Garak…

Fuck.

He swallowed roughly. 

Garak’s words might have been careful and measured, but his body was beginning to betray him. He was just as aroused as Julian. And god, wasn’t that a thought? That the object of the doctor’s long-held affections was sat upon the table, slick and no doubt aching, and all because of him. Neat and fussy exterior slowly unraveling. 

“Doctor, I—”

Julian cut him off. He didn’t want the game to end. Didn’t want to give Garak the opportunity to bow out and for the pair of them to go back to their usual routine of harmless flirting, sexual frustration, and moments of guilty, muffled relief in the dead of night (in his own case, at least. He couldn’t speak for Garak. Only hope). 

Garak wanted him. That much was evident. And Julian? He’d never wanted anyone more than he did right now. He wanted to push Garak flat against the table, upset the bowl of ink beside him, and paint his scales blue with his body. Whisper sweet nothings in his ear as he fucked him. Ruin his clothing, his body, his carefully laid plans. 

"You said this was used on scales?" 

Julian gestured towards the bowl of blue sap. He leaned forward, pushing further into Garak’s personal space, blue hand reaching out to pull the bowl closer. The inky liquid sloshed over the side with the movement, leaving a small puddle on the tabletop. 

Garak blinked. 

"I said nothing of the sort," he said after a moment, gaze fixed upon the small splash of blue. 

"Quite right,” Julian continued. His expression turned sly as he made his next move, tracing the rim of the bowl in much the same way as Garak had earlier that evening. “You did say nothing of the sort, which is how I know that there's some truth to it."

Garak’s expression was the very picture of innocence. Eyes wide. Lips parted. 

And utterly ruined by the panting he couldn’t quite disguise. 

“Oh?”

"You're practically allergic to the idea," Julian said, his voice low, smile dangerous.

"To the truth?" Garak replied.

"To the addition of ink to your scales.” Julian dipped a finger into the inky liquid, smile widening as he heard Garak swallow drily. “Knowing you as I do, that suggests to me that Cardassians have a rather intimate history with the substance, and that you're not as opposed to the idea as you want me to believe." 

There was another pause, the only sound that of their breathing and the waves his finger made as he swirled it through the ink. After a moment, once he was sure he had Garak’s unwavering attention, Julian raised his hand, letting the blue liquid drip from the tip of it. 

"What an interesting supposition," Garak said, voice infuriatingly cool and collected. 

It made Julian want to break him. Do something to ruffle that carefully-curated calmness. Bring the wildness he could see in Garak’s eyes to the surface. 

“Isn’t it?” Julian replied. Slowly, Julian brought his ink-covered hand between them. Garak’s eyes tracked the movement, his gaze avid. “One of my better hypotheses, I think.”

And before he could think the better of it, Julian pressed the tip of his inky finger to the hollow of Garak’s throat.


	8. Chapter 8

## Garak

He was going to die. Simply expire right there in the kitchen, body consumed by flames until there was little more than ash and the remnants of a humiliatingly damp patch upon the table top. And it would all be the doctor’s fault. Touching him like that. Such a calculating move: muder in the first degree, the weapon the very tip of his index finger, the killing blow immortalised in blue ink.

Garak could feel the sap dripping down his sternum, burning a path across his scales. He fought the urge to moan, and was only half successful. A hiss of pleasure escaped his lips before he could stop it. It was followed by a flush of embarrassed heat that chased along the ridges of his neck. 

The expression upon Julian’s face was one of smug superiority. His smile was predatory, eyes gleaming. It was a look full of the same self-congratulatory air he exuded each time he took one of Garak’s kotra pieces—fitting, given the doctor’s apparent push to reframe the situation into that of a game. Garak had only seen the switch in retrospect; how else could he interpret the doctor’s hands upon his thighs, gently exposing an all-too-physical weakness, if not as the opening gambit of lewd game of wills? A challenge to rise against (quite literally), winner no doubt taking all the other could possibly offer. 

A dangerous game, then. Especially given the direction of Garak’s thoughts. The knowledge that there was more than sex upon the table, so to speak, played heavily upon his mind. He had little doubt that he’d be liable to lose his heart to Julian as easily as he would his trousers. The doctor was awfully persuasive that way. 

And yet, he didn’t want to stop. Interrupted protestations aside—and they would have been half-hearted at best, he knew—the risk felt worth the reward. And the _thrill_ of it. It was like no other. He felt almost wild, and they had barely begun. Besides, he had been unbearably slow on the uptake; by Garak’s count, the score was currently in the doctor’s favour, with two successfully executed moves on Julian’s part to one particularly gormless look on his. 

That simply wouldn’t do. 

He was Elim Garak, for goodness sake! Ex-cunning spy, current wily bastard, and master of the kotra board for ten months running. He was damned if he was going to be outfoxed by Julian Bashir. He was going to come out on top, even if it killed him (and there was a joke in there, he was certain. Likely at his own expense). 

It was time to wipe the smile from the doctor’s face, and preferably replace it with something approaching an ‘O’ of both obscene and amusing proportions. 

But what to do?

It was hard to think with Julian standing so close, the ghost of the doctor’s touch lingering at the hollow of his throat. Harder still whilst trying not to make a complete and utter disgrace of himself.

What was the human expression? Ah yes, ‘mind over matter’. 

Something easier said than done, especially when one’s matter seemed to possess a mind of its own. It wasn’t just that he had unconsciously leaned closer to the doctor, senses chasing both his heat and his scent. Or that his feet had repositioned themselves upon the arms of the dining chair, bringing his legs in close enough to feel the faintest brush of Julian’s trousers against his inner thighs. Or even that his breathing, increasingly rapid and embarrassingly noticeable, had become almost impossible to control. All of that was bad, yes, but not nearly as catastrophic as the situation playing out a little lower. 

At this rate, not only was he going to give Julian an eye-full, but he was going to ruin the fabric of his trousers as he did so. They were already shockingly damp—something he was certain Julian had noticed—and becoming more creased by the second, each movement further wrinkling what had once been immaculately pressed seams. 

Buying himself some time, he smoothed down the front of his robe with his free hand, chasing away the ripples in the fabric. And then a thought occurred. His countermove. 

Setting Julian’s handkerchief down upon the tabletop, Garak reached for the tie at his waist. 

The doctor frowned.

“What are you doing?”

Garak smiled. Slowly, he began to loosen the knot, pulling the two strands of the belt apart. He let the fabric fall to his sides. A moment to tease, yes, the scales beneath the open robe still cast in shadow, only a hint of them visible to Julian’s eyes.

“The sap has a tendency to stain clothing. I’m fond of this robe,” he said, breathing deeply. 

The robe opened a little further with the movement of his chest, silky fabric sliding over scale to expose the very top of his ventral ridge. Another hint of what lay beneath. 

Julian’s gaze was avid, transfixed upon Garak’s body. The wolfish grin dropped from his lips. His jaw followed suit a second or two later, mouth opening in shock. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he seemed to come back to himself, expression of surprise replaced with something decidedly sly. 

“Black suits you,” Julian said, clean hand reaching out to trail across the edge of Garak’s lapel, fingers dangerously close to touching the scales beneath.

A wave of heat rolled over Garak’s body. The split in his lateral ridge twitched, the fleeting pressure of his internal walls against his cock sending sparks of pleasure ricocheting up his spine. He took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself to remain calm, collected. Concealed, too, a task as hard as his cock. 

No, no, this wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. 

“Thank you,” he said, brushing Julian’s hot little fingers away under the guise of removing lint from his sleeve. “The fabric came from a mill out in Lakat-9, and cost me distinctly more latinum than I care to admit, but I think it worth every slip.”

It was a lie—the fabric had come from the market just at the end of Union Street and had cost him all of two slips and a sweet smile—but that didn’t matter. Nor did it matter whether Julian believed it or not; the look on Julian’s face certainly suggested ‘not’. What mattered was that it provided the perfect excuse for his next move. 

Sure he had Julian’s full attention, in one quick move, he shrugged out of the robe completely, letting it drop in a puddle of silk upon the table behind him.

Julian’s reaction was immediate. Eyes wide. Mouth open in a perfect little ‘o’. Fists clenched. Garak could see Julian’s pulse at his throat, fluttering rapidly beneath the skin. A whisper of a groan escaped the doctor—something he no doubt thought too quiet for Garak to hear. 

Garak’s smile turned predatory. 

“What’s the problem, Doctor?” he said. He hooked a finger under Julian’s chin, pressing gently upwards until the doctor closed his mouth with a snap. He let his touch linger for a moment before he withdrew it, pressing a hand to his chest in mock concern. “You look ill. Surely my figure cannot be that repulsive to you? I admit, I’m a touch past my physical prime, but I like to think of myself as relatively in shape.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Garak let his hand drop from his chest, tips of his fingers trailing lightly down the line of his ventral ridge. A sharp thrill shot through him as he watched Julian’s eyes follow the movement. 

Whilst it was true his body had seen better, younger days, Garak still thought relatively highly of it. There was a touch extra padding here and there, and his scales no longer shined quite so brightly in the lamplight, but beneath all the superficial little flaws, he remained solid and strong. A decent foundation for a pleasant enough exterior. More than good enough for the doctor, if the way Julian looked at him was anything to go by. 

“I’ve never seen you without a shirt before,” Julian whispered. 

“That’s not a denial,” Garak countered.

“I’m not repulsed.”

No, he thought not. If anything, Julian looked as though he wanted to devour him whole. There was a hunger to his gaze that Garak had never seen before. It made his scales prickle with heat. Left the split in his ventral ridge shamelessly slick with anticipation. Threatened to make him throw caution to the wind, pull Julian closer, and sink his teeth into the perfect skin of his neck.

But there was the game to consider. And though Garak was sure that the taste of the doctor’s tongue would be sweet, victory would be sweeter. He would experience the first either way, but oh, how much better it might be if taken as a winning move. Checkmate, even, in deference to his partner’s preferred game of strategy. A Fool’s Mate, perhaps, if he were clever enough. 

“Ah, merely shocked, then?” Garak said, hoping to further needle the doctor. “I suppose I’ll have to take that as a complement.”

But Julian wasn’t listening. 

“You’re blue,” he said, gaze focused on the scales that decorated the lower half of Garak’s torso.

The Cardassian looked down. Julian was right. He was. Almost electric blue with arousal, the soft scales of his belly darkening as they disappeared below the waistband of his trousers. The scales on his lower back would likely look the same, he thought—he could feel the heat of them at the base of his spine, flushed and pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat.

The mating signal. Unquestionable evidence of his interest. It was too late to hide it now, and Julian had been on Cardassia long enough to know what it meant. 

“You have only yourself to blame for that,” Garak said in a moment of rare honesty. 

“I didn’t mean at the throat.”

“How interesting that you assume I did.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Julian reached out to touch the darkened scales. His fingers were all but a hair’s breadth away from coming into contact with Garak’s feverishly hot flesh before Julian clearly thought the better of it and rapidly shoved his wandering hand into his trouser pocket. It was swiftly joined by the other. 

“I feel distinctly overdressed,” Julian said. 

Garak let out a shuddering breath. 

He had often wondered what Julian looked like beneath all that fabric. Long and lithe, he thought, with both muscle and bone visible here and there beneath swathes of beautiful golden skin. He’d seen humans naked before; so vulnerable and plain, the only protection against their enemies their wits. No plates, or armour. No ridges. Just soft skin stretched over a fragile form.

A predator disguised as prey. 

“There are ways to remedy that,” he murmured. “Restore the balance.”

But Julian made no move to remove his tunic. His hands remained resolutely in his pockets—still serving the terms of their punishment, no doubt. To Garak’s surprise, Julian’s lips twisted into a wry grin. 

“I thought you didn’t want to get sap on your robe?” Julian countered.

The sheer closeness of Julian was intoxicating; it made him almost nauseous with desire. He could feel the heat that radiated from the doctor upon his aching scales; smell the scent of his skin, his soap, his arousal; practically taste the tarkalean tea that sweetened his breath. A few inches more and their lips would touch. 

But neither of them moved to close the gap.

Garak growled in frustration. 

“And I thought you were going to provide me with a demonstration of the pigment’s removal, not add more.” he said, a touch of petulance creeping into his tone. 

“Is that what you really want? To watch me remove the stain from my hand?”

“It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Julian’s eyes flickered over Garak’s blue scales.

“If you insist.”

The air around them shifted as Julian withdrew his hands from his pockets. Stepping closer still, Julian reached for the dermal regenerator with his clean hand. His blue one he proffered to Garak, palm upwards, waiting expectantly for the Cardassian to grasp it in his own. He nodded towards the handkerchief Garak had set down upon the tabletop. 

“You’ll need that.”

“Why?”

“To catch the ink,” he replied simply, face innocent. He gestured again for Garak to take his hand. “You don’t want to ruin your trousers, do you?”

 _A bit late for that, Doctor_ , Garak thought. 

A sudden wariness washing over him, he took Julian’s hand, cradling it in the palm of his own, revelling in the warmth of it, the softness of the doctor’s skin. Julian flexed his fingers and Garak felt the ripple of tendon and bone against his hand. A shiver crawled across his scales at the sensation, an almost unbearable heat burning deep within his belly. Before he could stop himself, he stroked a thumb across Julian’s skin, right at the point where hand met wrist. 

The doctor gasped in response, and the heat Garak felt turned into a raging inferno, the force of it threatening to consume him. 

God, he wanted Julian. He _needed_ him. Screw the game; winner or loser, it didn’t matter, as long as Julian continued to make noises like that.

Unluckily for Garak, it seemed as though the doctor wasn’t quite finished playing yet. Instead of tossing everything aside and simply pouncing upon him, Julian continued to defy Garak’s most fervent unspoken wishes, choosing instead to busy himself with the dermal regenerator, rolling the tip of it across his palm. Beads of inky blue began to pearl upon his skin. 

Julian gave Garak a pointed look. He nodded towards the handkerchief and then his hand, waiting for the Cardassian to remove the excess.

"You lied to me," Julian said as Garak dabbed the ink from his skin. "It is used on scales."

"What is?"

"The ink," Julian continued to drag the regenerator over his skin until the last of the stain had disappeared. "Or something similar. I've seen it."

Garak could feel his heart pounding in his chest. There was only one place the doctor could have seen something like this. Garak bit back a groan. He shouldn’t ask. He couldn’t ask. The answer might well kill him. And yet...

"And where did you learn that?" he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. 

Julian paused. He looked to Garak to be weighing up his answer—deciding upon exactly how much truth to tell the tortured old Cardassian sat exposed and panting upon the kitchen table. Playing the damnable game with more careful strategy and finesse than he had ever managed during one of their kotra matches. 

"Oh, it's truly astonishing the type of interesting information one can learn from the Grid given the right search parameters," Julian said, face impassive. He plucked the stained handkerchief from Garak’s lax fingers. “Now, about your throat...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Syaunei for helping me work out the best place for a Cardassian to go blue!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you all begin reading this chapter, you should take a moment to go look at this absolutely stunning piece of artwork done by the incredibly talented [Kaelio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaelio) \- it's a scene from a few chapters back. Garak and Bashir are busy getting a little inky. ;D
> 
> [THE ART](https://kaelio.tumblr.com/post/639529651182649344/kaelio-damnhardwork-does-an-excellent)
> 
> It's amazing, right?!
> 
> ♥ ♥ ♥ 

  


## Julian

He was as hard as a rock.

There was no way Garak hadn’t noticed. There were only so many sins his tunic could hide. Sins equating to a rather stingy three or four inches, max, he gloomily estimated. Whilst he didn’t consider himself overly well-endowed—the ball-park figure firmly average—he knew with an almost crippling amount of certainty that he was pitching enough of a tent to accommodate a small circus. 

Which was fitting, really, considering he felt like a clown. What had he been thinking, answering Garak’s question like that? 

_‘How do I know about painted scales, you ask? Well, Garak, not to brag, but I have watched a lot of Cardassian pornography since I arrived.’_

It was hardly the stuff great romance was made of. Then again, what romance was there to be had in their current situation, previous idiotic comment notwithstanding? The tableau in Garak’s kitchen had far more in common with the pornography Julian had foolishly confessed to watching than a sweeping tale of lovers, star-crossed or otherwise. Not that Julian was necessarily complaining. Right now, cock hard and aching, he rather thought he’d prefer idiotic dialogue followed by a swift but thorough buggering over the table to something involving great declarations of love and duty (Garak was Cardassian, after all—no getting in a state without The State). 

Given the way Garak was looking at him, Julian thought he might be inclined to agree. Garak’s blue eyes were wide and full of heat. They bored into Julian’s own with an intensity the doctor had never seen before, as though attempting to strip him bare through sheer force of will alone. Garak looked as on edge as Julian felt. He was panting, too. Julian could hear each breath as it escaped Garak’s parted lips, the sound becoming more ragged with every passing second.

It was far more intoxicating than it had any right to be, the sight of Garak upon the table. The sound of him, too, and the scent—all spice and soap and the faint undercurrent of something a little more carnal.

They’d barely done more than talk, but already Julian felt almost drunk with lust. Every beat of his heart sent another wave of aching desire rolling over his skin. 

He needed to touch Garak. 

Now. 

“Tilt your head back,” Julian said, placing a hand upon the scales of Garak’s neck. They were hot beneath his hand. Flushed a faint blue, too, much like the rest of him. 

Garak obeyed without hesitation, the lightest of gasps escaping him as Julian’s fingers curled around the sensitive ridge. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each shaking inhalation outlining the faint ghost of ribs beneath scales. 

“Now, hold still,” Julian said as he brought the dermal regenerator up to the hollow of Garak’s throat. 

“Doctor, I think th—”

“No talking.” Julian’s hand tightened briefly around Garak’s neck ridge. “I need you to keep as still and as quiet as possible.”

It wasn’t strictly true. He didn’t _need_ Garak to do anything. Should he miss with the regenerator, the worst Garak would feel would be a slight tingling in his non-stained scales. But there was something so appealing about giving Garak orders, and seeing them so dutifully obeyed, that Julian found he couldn’t help himself. The sense of control was thrilling. 

Slowly, Julian ran the gently humming regenerator across the mark at Garak’s throat. In much the same way as it had upon his own hand, inky liquid began to bead upon the scales, more rising to the surface with each pass of the instrument. It welled in the hollow Garak’s throat, in the shallow dip where his collarbones met, before beginning to drip slowly down his front. The thin stream of blue wound its way down Garak’s sternum, following the line of his ventral ridge.

Julian swallowed drily. Stifling a groan as best he could, he watched as the inky liquid trickled across the blue-tinted scales of Garak’s stomach before sinking into the waistband of his trousers.

The regenerator stuttered to a halt in Julian’s hand.

The rustle of fabric filled the air as Garak shifted position upon the table. One grey hand—shaking, Julian was intrigued to note—dabbed at the inky spot blossoming upon the waistband of his trousers, the pass of fingertips across the stain colouring them blue. Unable to look away, Julian watched as, after a moment, Garak’s hand descended lower, coming to rest at the very top of his thigh, casually framing a rather more intimate section of Cardassian anatomy.

“It appears as though you are determined to ruin my pants this evening,” Garak said. “Whatever happened to your handkerchief?”

The item in question sat in a crumpled heap beside the ink bowl, discarded in favour of fondling Garak’s neck. 

“Sorry.” His eyes snapped back to Garak’s. “I was a little distracted.”

A predatory look stole across Garak’s features. 

"Oh?"

“I was thinking about the ink.”

Specifically about how good Garak might look with his ridges painted like the filthiest of adult entertainers. Not that he was about to tell Garak that. He had some dignity left, thank you very much, and the game was still very much in play. 

“Its removal or its addition?” Garak said, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

Julian bit back a groan. 

“Both,” he said, fumbling desperately for a plausible lie. “A-and it occurs to me that this could have some sort of medical use."

Not the best, but it would do in a pinch.

Garak’s eye ridges rose in surprise.

"Not this colour, unless you have a rather more _private_ practice than you led me to believe."

"Well, yes, granted. But that's nothing a little extra pigment wouldn't solve." Julian placed the dermal regenerator upon the table and reached for the bowl. He brought it between them, swirling the tip of a long finger in the ink. “It doesn’t come off. Or at least, not when I’ve touched it. Don’t you think something like that could be useful? Perhaps as a little ‘cut here’ guide for surgery. Or some variety of tattoo.”

Julian withdrew his finger, swiping it along the inside of his wrist, leaving a vibrant blue streak upon his skin. Garak’s eyes dipped to follow the movement, irises now little more than thin rings of blue around wide, black pupils.

“And you want to test this on me,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Have me be your _guinea pig_.”

"You can always say no," Julian countered, knowing full well Garak wouldn’t. 

If he was right—and he was frequently enough to justify his carefully cultivated air of intellectual arrogance—Garak wanted what he was subtly offering just as much as he did. He wanted Julian to paint his scales blue. Make his ridges match the flush that crept up the scales of his stomach.

And hadn’t that been a shock? Not the colour itself; Julian had seen that often enough during his late night perusals of BlueTube. No, it was the fact that it was natural. He had always assumed that the colour was cosmetic; the equivalent of make-up, pornstar red lips exchanged for electric blue scales, with the effect upon both mind and body being much the same. 

Garak wanted him. If his behaviour hadn’t made it clear, then the colour of his scales did. A state of affairs made clearer still by his response to Julian’s gentle teasing. 

"Refuse and leave you to your own devices? I think not," Garak said, plucking the bowl from Julian’s fingers. 

"I'm sure there would be other Cardassians willing to help. It's for a good cause, after all."

"Other Cardassians would not be quite so forgiving as myself, should something go wrong."

"Such little confidence," Julian teased, reaching forward to trace the rim of the bowl. He let his fingers trail across the backs of Garak’s hands as they passed. “I ought to be offended.” 

Garak shivered, the movement generating ripples in the ink. 

“Is it really so unexpected?” Garak replied, voice steadier than his hands. “Here I am, a passably willing participant, ready to sacrifice my hide for potential medical advancement, and you continue to dismiss me. Forgive me, Doctor, but surely you can see how one brand of idiocy readily suggests another.”

Julian smiled. He briefly dipped a finger into the dark liquid, letting the excess drip from the tip. 

“I thought you wanted me to remove the ink? Not add more.”

"What I want seems to be completely irrelevant," Garak said, eyes transfixed upon Julian’s hand. "You appear perfectly content to satisfy your own whims, regardless. You were the one who requested… no, _demanded_ my presence, Doctor.” Garak shifted upon the table, hooking a leg behind Julian and pulling him closer. “I was content to let the mark at my ankle be. Live with it, as one must, rather than succumb to the desire to erase all evidence of the mistake.”

The feel of Garak’s thighs around him threatened to make his brain short-circuit. A crackle of white-hot pleasure shot up his spine. He gasped. He put out a hand to steady himself, grabbing onto the edge of Garak’s bare shoulder, smearing ink across the scales. 

Not that either of them appeared to notice. 

“Is that what you think this is?” Julian said, breathing heavily. “A mistake?”

“Did you intend to paint my ankle blue?”

“Did you want me to?”

There was a pause, the question hanging heavily between them, the air thick with tension. 

“What I want, Doctor,” Garak said after a moment, “is for you to make your mind up. Are you going to add more ink, or erase it?”

‘ _Are we going to fuck, or return to our beds alone?_ ’

That was the question Garak was really asking. Or, at the very least, the one Julian heard. 

Julian’s eyes flickered over Garak’s shoulder. They widened as he noticed the inky stain he had left. ‘ _Too late_ ,’ he thought. The question had already been answered.

Blood burning at the thought of what he was about to do, Julian let go, hands reaching for the ink with such speed that they threatened to upset the liquid and send it sloshing over the bowl. 

Garak let out a groan of admonishment, but Julian wasn’t listening. He was too focused on the motion of his fingers in the ink and where he was about to put them. He knew exactly how he was going to touch Garak. Paint him. Tease him, _torture him_ , until he came undone beneath his blue fingers.

He was going to touch Garak’s sides. Run the tips of his fingers over his ribs and waist, hitting the starting point of every transverse ridge on the way down. 

It was something Julian had seen often in the frankly impressive amount of pornography he had watched. He could only assume that either the area or the idea held some sort of appeal to Cardassians. An erogenous zone, perhaps. 

There was always the chance that he had stumbled onto some obscure variety of kink, the focus on the sides of the torso seen much the same way by Cardassians at large as the excessive fondling of soles occasionally present in his (human) spank bank. It did appear relatively often. Then again, who was to say that wasn’t due to some algorithmic quirk of the system? Like the time he had watched a video review of men’s lacy underwear— _out of curiosity, honest!_ —and had been inundated for months afterwards with further suggestions along much the same lines (and if the result of said bombardment had been the purchase of several similar garments, then it was a testament to the effectiveness of Klingon marketing strategy). 

Still, pant-based predilections aside, there was only one way to find out. And after all, Garak _had_ asked. 

Drawing on every lewd scene he had witnessed, every off-colour book he had read, every tab on his PADDs browser he had closed in a haze of post-orgasmic guilt, he removed his fingers in the ink—first the left hand, then the right—and placed them upon Garak’s sides, just below his armpits. In one smooth motion, careful to keep the pressure light but even, he drew them downwards, over the notches of Garak’s scales and the ribs beneath. Down across the softer section of his waist. Down until he met the fabric of his trousers, where they dipped briefly below before coming to rest at his hips. 

The effect was both immediate and spectacular. 

The bowl of ink clattered to the floor, splashing inky sap over the pair of them.

Garak moaned. Loudly.

Julian answered it with a similar sound of his own. It was only polite. And really, the picture Garak made, it was a miracle he had managed to stop at oral appreciation. 

He looked… _God_. 

Julian's mouth went dry.

Garak’s back had arched, seemingly of its own volition, head lolling back to expose the column of his throat. His chest and arms dripped with splattered ink. Julian felt rather than saw his legs move, the sharp claws of his feet scraping across the arms of the chair as his thighs tensed. And at the crux of them, beneath fabric so damp it was glistening, Julian could see the outline of Garak’s cock. 

Julian swallowed, manfully fighting the urge to come at the sight. He’d already made enough of a fool of himself this evening; coming untouched in the middle of the kitchen would have been the uncomfortable icing on the deeply awkward cake. 

It was a close run thing. He was so close to the edge, he could barely think of anything beyond the way Garak looked, wet and hard and thoroughly wrecked, and how it had been his hands that had done it. How the ink on his fingers highlighted the trail they had taken across Garak’s scales. 

He reached up to repeat the action, but before he could do so, he found his wrists tightly encircled by Garak’s hands. Trapped. Restrained. Garak’s grip was so tight it was almost painful. 

_Almost_. 

Julian could feel the tremors that wracked Garak’s body through his hands.

“Do that again and the night will end in disappointment,” Garak said, his voice low and dangerous.

“For you or me?”

Garak didn’t answer. 

“What was that? What did I touch?”

The splattered ink was beginning to drip from Garak’s ridges. It ran between the gaps in his scales, fanning outwards like the delta of a great river. 

“Garak? What did I do?”

The grip upon Julian’s wrists tightened further. He could feel the bite of Garak’s nails into the soft flesh of his arm, sending pinpricks of sharp, hot pain jolting up his arms, the sensation mixing with the almost agonising pleasure he felt at the knowledge of what he had done to the Cardassian, bringing him to the very edge. Tension wracked his body, his need for relief so overwhelming he didn’t know whether he would come or die. 

“Let go,” Julian growled. 

And Garak did. 

Immediately. 

He leaned back, bracing himself against the tabletop, breathing heavily, a wild sort of look in his wide blue eyes. 

He looked magnificent, Julian thought. A mix of blue and grey, ink splashed across his scales, begging to be smeared. Perfectly imperfect, his body shaped by past overindulgence (and the attempts to correct it). Solid in places. Soft in others. And so very tempting. 

Julian wanted to bite him. Not on the neck—the more usual location for such fantasies—but lower, where Garak’s scales were small and thin and plain. Where he was _vulnerable_. That ounce of spare flesh just above the jut of his hip that spoke of too much kanar and not quite enough exercise. He wanted to sink his teeth into it. Run his tongue over the blue-flushed scales. Feel the scant evidence of one Garak’s many vices beneath his lips, forcing the switch from one form of hedonism to another, sweet little nips displacing sweet little confections as the primary means of delivering pleasure. 

Then again, perhaps his hands would be better? He could remain in control that way. There was only so much sensory input with hands; touch, obviously, and whatever visual stimulation his hands upon Garak’s scales would provide. If he used his mouth, there would be taste to contend with, too, and the scent of him. It would leave at least one hand free, which would undoubtedly work its way down his own body, and therefore lead to nothing but trouble.

Trouble that began with him sinking to his knees, and ended with jaw ache. 

Whilst Julian was relatively certain there would be no objections to the sight of him desperately fucking his own hand as he sucked Garak’s cock, it was hardly the optimal scenario. For a start, the view would be less than spectacular—he wanted to see Garak’s face as he came undone. See the way the muscles of his stomach would tense, the way his thighs might shake, the way his nails, sharp and dark, threatened to leave permanent marks in the wood of the table. 

No, no, hands were the better idea.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Julian smoothed his palms across the scales of Garak’s waist, tips of his fingers digging in ever so slightly. He traced the bone of Garak’s hip—or more accurately, the ridge that decorated it. It was so faint, it was barely visible amongst the blue hue of his lower scales, but Julian could feel the change in texture beneath his fingertips. 

Garak gasped. 

The gasp turned into what could only be described as a moan as Julian’s hands met upon Garak’s ventral ridge and began to descend lower. His fingers dipped below the waistband of Garak’s trousers, lightly teasing the scales that sat below. 

A question. 

The sound Garak made was both deeply erotic and desperately needy. He shifted upon the table, hips canting forward, legs spreading further apart, giving the doctor room to work. 

An answer. 

And with that, Julian’s hand slid below the fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _‘How do I know about painted scales, you ask? Well, Garak, not to brag, but I have watched a lot of Cardassian pornography since I arrived.’_
> 
> Phrase courtesy of Xorabbit - shamelessly stolen by me because I laughed at it for a solid 5 minutes.


	10. Chapter 10

## Garak

He was going to come. It was inevitable. The question was merely one of time: how long could he hold out? Given that Julian’s fingers had barely begun to explore the scales that sat below his hip, the odds on the answer being ‘long enough’ were getting worse by the moment. In fact, there was a decent chance that he’d orgasm the second Julian touched the split in his ventral ridge, never mind his cock.

And there was no doubt that was where Julian’s fingers were headed. It was a slow and tortuous journey, true, but there was a definite destination in the doctor’s mind. 

For all their anatomical differences, the mechanics of the act were strikingly similar. Yes, there were additional ins and outs—quite literally—but the feel of Julian’s fingers wrapped around his cock would be more than enough to bring things to a swift yet highly satisfactory conclusion. And besides, should the good doctor develop an interest in sticking those blue-tipped digits where the sun most definitely did not shine, the outcome might be one that required the services of an undertaker.

He could picture the headline now:

**ʟᴏᴄᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴ ᴅɪᴇs ᴀᴛ ᴏғғ-ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ's ʜᴀɴᴅ**

A summation as accurate as it would be humiliating. There was something to be said about going out with a bang, to use one of Julian’s colloquialisms. That at least had some style to it. This, however, would be more akin to going out with a mortifying sort of whimper. 

It simply wouldn’t do. He had to think of something. Anything. 

Well, anything other than the feel of Julian’s fingers sliding slowly southwards, and the fire-like sensation they left in their wake. They had reached the very top of the split in his ventral ridge and were busily exploring the ‘landscape’. The back of Julian’s knuckles brushed inadvertently against the head of his cock, sending sparks ricocheting down the length of it. Garak bit the inside of his cheek.

Julian’s hand moved lower. The tip of one finger dipped briefly between the two halves of Garak’s ventral ridge, gently teasing at the join. Right where the scales were the most sensitive. 

A bolt of electricity crackled up Garak’s spine at the sensation. A moan escaped his lips before he could stop it. One that sounded even more needy than he felt; an impressive thing in and of itself.

He was so close to the edge already, and they’d barely even begun. 

It was an utterly unacceptable state of affairs. Not only was such an anticlimax (an accurate and damning description) liable to leave Julian questioning the need for a round two, it would almost certainly mean a resounding loss for Garak in terms of the game they were playing. The house kotra champion, ten months running, brought to his knees by a masterstroke. Or two—if he could hold out long enough. 

He simply couldn’t let Julian win. He’d never hear the end of it. So, busily contemplating the nature of the universe, and the jokes the fates played upon those within it—it was either that or succumb to the type of temptation liable to leave one both hopelessly wet and a resounding disappointment—Garak shifted position upon the table, moving closer to the edge. He reached up with a shaking hand to caress Julian’s face. 

The doctor’s skin was rough beneath his fingertips. There was a shadow of a beard at his jaw. Garak’s palm flattened against it, thumb tracing along the hollow of his cheek, the tips of his fingers trailing along the tantalisingly vulnerable spot where Julian’s jaw ended and his neck began. 

Garak heard Julian’s breath catch. He smiled at the sound. Then he swept his thumb lower, the pad of it following the swell of the doctor’s bottom lip. The skin there was soft. Damp, too, and shining in the diffuse, golden light that emanated from the kitchen lamps. 

Garak thought briefly of what it might feel like to replace his thumb with his lips. Taste Julian’s mouth. Swallow the desperate little sounds the doctor might make in response. But as soon as the thought came, it was replaced by another, lewder one; Julian’s lips stretched around the shaft of his cock.

Before he could stop himself, Garak pushed his thumb into Julian’s mouth. A filthy simulacrum of his thoughts. One that didn’t help Garak’s ever-worsening situation in the least. 

Not that it mattered; Julian’s wandering hand had stuttered to a halt. Garak, however, hadn’t noticed. He was too preoccupied with the feel of Julian’s mouth around his thumb. It was hot. Wet. Julian’s tongue sliding against Garak’s scales in a way that made his cock ache. Made his mind focus on all the ways Julian’s mouth might help ease it. 

Could he make Julian do that?

Order him to his knees, tangle his fingers in his hair, and ensure Julian’s mouth was busily occupied with an entirely different portion of his anatomy? It was something he had thought about more often that he would like to admit. Especially given oral sex was more of a human persuasion than a Cardassian one. Not that the act was considered taboo—there was very little Cardassians considered off the menu—simply out of fashion.

Funny, he thought, that his fantasies skewed in the opposite direction to his dress sense. Perhaps evidence that there was a sense of balance to the universe after all. Besides, he rather suspected Julian wouldn’t be averse to the idea, in vogue or not. Not if the whimper that had just escaped him was any indication.

Yet, voicing his own fantasies seemed like rather a dangerous path. For a start, there was something to be said about maintaining a little mystery in a relationship—even if such advice did often refer to bathroom habits as opposed to bedroom ones. And besides, there was always the risk that such talk would devolve into something set to rival the worst, most uninspired dialogue ever posted to BlueTube.

There were only so many ways to enquire about the possibility of getting one’s cock sucked, and few of them were particularly elegant. 

Somehow, he didn't think Julian would take too kindly to leading questions regarding the size of his equipment, either (another staple of what could laughably be referred to as the genre). Especially when such comparisons could be unfavourable. Such was the risk inherent in interspecies intercourse, along with incompatibility, irritation, and impotence. Size wasn’t everything, it was true, but in Garak’s experience, the trouble began when things stood at a contrast to one's ego. 

No, no, it would be best if Julian did the confessing. Humans were rather built for it, he thought, if their complicated history with religion was anything to go by. Besides, if there was one person who loved the sound of his own voice as much as Garak did, it was Julian. He would likely welcome the excuse to talk. 

Slowly, Garak withdrew his thumb from Julian’s mouth. He swept the pad of it over Julian’s lower lip before pulling the doctor close. So close, in fact, that their lips almost touched. He watched as Julian’s eyes fluttered shut in anticipation of a kiss. 

It was endearing, really. Erotic, too, in a strange sort of way, Julian so sure of how things were going to go, the moves Garak was going to make. It almost seemed a shame to break him of the illusion. 

Almost.

“So trusting,” he murmured, free hand tangling in Julian’s hair, the strands silky-soft between his fingers.

Then he pulled. Hard. 

Julian’s head snapped back, exposing the long column of his throat to Garak’s mouth. He latched onto it with little ceremony, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, making Julian gasp. 

“The same could be said for yourself,” Julian replied. His hand grasped Garak’s cock in retaliation, the firmness of the grip almost mercenary. 

Garak groaned into the skin of Julian’s neck. 

It felt better than he had ever dared imagine—and he’d imagined it often. The heat of Julian’s hand was exquisite. The pressure the curl of his fingers provided just the right side of teasing. And when the doctor’s hand began to move… Good grief! Each pass of Julian’s palm across his swollen scales threatened to render him insensate, conscious of nothing save Julian and the stroke of his fist. 

Garak’s hand slipped from Julian’s hair. It clawed down the doctor’s back, the cloth of his shirt bunching beneath Garak’s fingers. Julian grunted in response, hips canting forward a fraction, seeking friction but finding only air. 

It seemed that the doctor was just as affected as Garak was. And yet, the hand wrapped around Garak’s cock did not relent. If anything, the speed increased, each stroke along Garak’s aching shaft more punishing than the last. 

Garak opened his mouth to suggest they made the arrangement a little more mutual in execution, only to find the words die in his throat. Instead of a carefully crafted suggestion regarding his hands and the optimal placement thereof, all that emerged was a rumbling groan. 

It was met with a breathy sort of laugh from the doctor.

“If I’d known this was all it would take to render you speechless, then I’d have made my move a long time ago,” Julian said, words whispering past Garak’s ear. 

He sounded entirely too triumphant for Garak’s liking. Julian wasn’t wrong, which was half of what made the statement all the more galling. But Garak was damned if he was going to let the doctor know it. It was far too close to the truth of the situation: that Julian had an almost singular ability to knock down each and every one of his defences with ease, his overly loquacious manner only the latest in a long line of casualties. 

No, it simply wouldn’t do. If Julian knew that all he had to do to win an argument was to stick his hand down the front of Garak’s trousers, then their relationship would likely be over before it had even begun. Humans might consider variety the spice of life, but for a Cardassian, it was heated disagreement.

He had to do something. 

Garak swallowed drily.

“And if I’d known what sort of things you’d been looking at on the Grid, I’d have installed a better firewall,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. Before he could think the better of it, Garak grabbed the curve of Julian’s arse and pulled him forward, trapping Julian’s hand in position as he removed the last of the space between them. “Or perhaps offered a personal demonstration.”

Julian groaned.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” he said, mouthing at the sensitive ridge beneath Garak’s ear. 

“A demonstration generally requires some sort of visual component.”

Julian’s hand released Garak’s cock, much to the Cardassian’s disappointment. After a moment of inelegant reshuffling, it emerged from the depths of Garak’s trousers, wet fingers grasping at his waist. A second later, it was joined by the other. Teeth sinking into the ridge upon Garak’s jaw, Julian’s fingers tightened upon Garak’s scales, pulling him closer as he ground against him. 

Garak choked back a moan. He could feel the length of Julian’s cock against his own. It was almost enough to make his brain short-circuit; he’d seen the extent of the doctor’s excitement earlier, but it was an entirely different thing to _feel_ it. Especially when Julian flicked his hips just so, the pressure briefly rising to maddening heights, bringing Garak so close to the edge he had to fight not to let it overwhelm him. 

“Take your trousers off,” Julian said, panting. 

“No.”

Julian’s fingers flexed upon Garak’s waist. He drew back a fraction, a questioning look upon his face. 

“No?”

“I was unaware this room had an echo,” he said, unable to disguise the tremor in his voice. 

If there was one thing Garak was certain of, it was that the only thing keeping him together was the fabric barrier between Julian’s cock and his own. At this point, even the thought of skin to scale contact would likely send him careening over the edge. 

Julian’s eyes narrowed. 

“Why not?”

Despite the antagonistic tone he had taken, Julian’s hips jerked against Garak’s in what the Cardassian was sure was an unconscious motion, too far gone to remain fully in control of himself. 

They both moaned. 

“The tabletop is cold.”

It wasn’t a lie. The table top _was_ cold. What Garak declined to reveal (other than the contents of his trousers to Julian's greedy eyes) was that such a sensation would not only be a pleasant one, but likely a relief from the tight, burning heat that prickled across his scales. 

It was at times like these that he wondered whether or not he had a masochistic streak. Denying himself even the barest hint of respite in order to inconvenience Julian certainly pointed towards a tendency towards self-sabotage, sexual or otherwise. An enjoyable form of torture, at the very least. It was either that or he was simply an idiot. 

Possibly both. 

“Would it help if I took my tunic off?” Julian said. 

“I don’t see how, unless you expect me to sit on it,” he replied, tugging at the hem of Julian’s top with feigned distaste. 

Scratch that. He was _definitely_ both. 

Still, the act did give him the opportunity to curl his fingers beneath the fabric, the backs of them brushing against the bare skin of Julian’s stomach. 

“We could take this elsewhere," Julian groaned. 

An interesting idea. The bedroom would certainly be more comfortable than the tabletop. He couldn’t deny that he had always wanted to paint the bedsheets blue—and that wasn’t just a metaphor. However, there was one slight problem: he was in absolutely no state to move. Even if his legs would support him (which he severely doubted), the walk upstairs would be agony. The feel of fabric against his cock as already torture enough. The extra friction such a trip would generate was the last thing he required. Not if he wanted to make use of the bed. 

No, they had to stay here. 

"Why move when I've got you exactly where I want you?" he said. 

And then he kissed him.


End file.
